


The Killings At Butcher's Hollow

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, References to Addiction, secondary pairing - d'artagnan/constance, trapped underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: When two corpses turn up with what seem to be all the hallmarks of a ritual killing, Inspector Porthos Du Vallon has to determine whether he's got a cult of murderous Satanists on his hands. But even a more prosaic kind of criminal can prove to be a deadly foe, and Porthos' mind isn't exactly on the job right now, following a rift with Athos over a client he once defended. Add to that having to deal with a troublesome new member of staff, irritable Pagans and a bunch of wayward children, and Porthos isn't having the best of weeks. And that's before he gets trapped underground in a slowly flooding mine...





	1. Chapter 1

Lying awake in the dark, Porthos heard the church clock strike one AM and sighed. Beside him Athos stirred, and realising he was still awake, nestled closer. 

"Not normally you that has trouble sleeping," Athos murmured. "You okay?" 

"Yeah. Just not particularly looking forward to tomorrow, that’s all," Porthos admitted.

"Why, what's tomorrow?" Athos slipped an arm around his waist and rested his chin on Porthos' shoulder.

"Got a guy coming back to work with us. DS Marcheaux. He was seconded to the Met just over a year ago."

"And you’re worried he’ll have picked up their big-city ways and look down on you?" Athos teased.

Porthos smiled but didn’t laugh. "Actually – oh God, I shouldn’t be telling you this."

"Go on," Athos prompted, pressing a kiss to Porthos’ bare arm. "I’m hardly going to spread gossip am I?"

"Well it seems like there was a bit of unpleasantness. He’s not exactly being sent home in disgrace, but they made it abundantly clear they didn’t want to keep him."

"You think he’ll be trouble?"

"I hope not." Porthos rolled over, taking Athos into his arms. 

"I don't imagine D'Artagnan'll be all that thrilled either," Athos remarked. "Another detective sergeant muscling in on his patch?"

"He's keeping an open mind," Porthos said. "Better than I am to be fair, although that's mostly 'cause he's not actually met him yet. In fact, d'Artagnan joined us when Marcheaux moved on. There's plenty of work and I'm honestly grateful for the extra pair of hands, just - why did they have to be his?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Yeah." Porthos didn't sound convinced. "I’ve just got a bad feeling about it, that's all."

\--

Slightly to Porthos' surprise, Marcheaux reported for duty bang on time and with at least the appearance of being glad to be there. After a while half-listening to the man's conversations with colleagues old and new, it dawned on him this was mainly due to Marcheaux making out it had been his decision to come back. 

Of the people in the immediate office it was only Porthos who knew the details behind the man's reappearance, and he was willing to let the pretence pass without comment if it made for a happier working environment. The only fly in the ointment was that Marcheaux knew he knew, and Porthos was conscious of a slightly spiky resentfulness emanating from the man.

He tried to put it out of his head and carry on as normal, and was glad when d'Artagnan called him over. 

"Constance was wondering if you and Athos’d like to join us next weekend? We're going for a walk in the woods up near Owlbrook, and given that he's already there and you'll probably be in the vicinity too, she thought you might like to come along?"

"I'm not sure he's that sociable, but I can ask," Porthos laughed. A moment later he became aware that Marcheaux was staring at him, and realised with a prickle of discomfort that he'd overheard. 

"Problem?" Daring him to make an issue of it. Porthos hadn't been particularly open about his sexuality at work for very long, and Marcheaux wouldn't have known he was gay. Behind him d'Artagnan winced, embarrassed at having inadvertently outed him. 

Marcheaux met Porthos' hard gaze with a mocking smile. "I didn't know you were a - that way inclined." 

"If you've got a problem with it I'm sure I can have you reassigned," Porthos said grimly. "Again."

"Oh, no of course not." Marcheaux waved the suggestion away dismissively, the gesture ending with just the suggestion of a limp wrist. "Athos, was it? That's an unusual name." 

"He's an unusual man." Porthos turned away, trying to bring the conversation to a close, but Marcheaux had other ideas, following a tugging thread of memory to its conclusion.

"It’s surely not Athos de la Fère? The barrister?"

"Yeah. What of it?" Porthos bristled, feeling defensive and not sure why. Marcheaux’s air of sneering amusement at the discovery his superior was apparently a shirt-lifter had given way to something closer to genuine curiosity.

"I’d have thought he’d be the last person you’d be feeling charitable towards," Marcheaux said, and there was enough bafflement in his voice to stop Porthos from just walking away. 

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Well - the Bonnaire case?" Marcheaux prompted.

Porthos scowled. It had been a charge of human trafficking and he’d spent months putting together evidence against the man only for the bastard to get away with it. "What about it?"

Marcheaux frowned. "Did you not give evidence in the end?"

"No. The charge was dismissed before I ever had to take the stand."

"That’d explain it then."

"Explain what?" Porthos demanded exasperatedly. 

"La Fère was Bonnaire’s brief," Marcheaux told him with undisguised pleasure in delivering such a bombshell. "Athos de la Fère was the man who got him off."

\--

"Porthos!" Athos’ look of pleased surprise at discovering Porthos unexpectedly on his doorstep in the middle of the afternoon faded a little as he took in Porthos’ thunderous expression. "What is it?"

"Can we talk?"

"Er – yes. Yes, of course." Athos let him in, wondering what had happened. A sick feeling was already churning in his gut at Porthos’ brusque tone despite the fact he couldn’t think of anything he might have conceivably done wrong. 

Porthos had marched into the kitchen and was standing tensely in the middle of the room, clearly too wound up to sit down.

"Tea?" Athos offered tentatively, but Porthos shook his head. 

"Athos – did you ever represent a man called Emile Bonnaire?" Hoping against hope that Marcheaux had been wrong, that perhaps there was another la Fère. Hadn't Athos once mentioned a brother?

Athos frowned, taken aback. The question certainly hadn’t been one he was expecting. "Er – yes, I believe I did. About – must have been about three years ago. Why?"

Porthos’ legs gave out and he sat down after all, sinking onto one of the stools and putting his head in his hands.

"Porthos? Whatever is it?" Athos asked anxiously, hurrying over and putting a concerned hand on his shoulder. For the life of him he couldn’t work out the connection between a client he’d had years before they’d met and Porthos’ current state of angst. 

Porthos shrugged him off angrily. "How could you?"

"How could I what? Porthos, what’s going on?"

"How could you defend a man like that?" Porthos half-shouted at him, and Athos took a step backwards. 

"I – well, I – " Athos faltered, then took a breath and settled himself, starting to look irritated rather than bewildered. "Ultimately, I was paid to," he said flatly. "The morally squeaky clean tend not to need the services of high-end lawyers, when it comes down to it. Am I to be held to account now for every less than savoury person I’ve ever defended?"

"You got him off." Porthos had gone from shouting to barely a whisper. "The bastard was guilty, and you got him off on a technicality."

"Then the prosecution should have put their case together better shouldn’t they?" Athos snapped.

Porthos hung his head, a choked laugh escaping his lips.

"Porthos?" 

"It was my case, Athos." He looked up again, bleakly. "It was my case. I spent nearly a year of my life putting together the file on that bastard. And thanks to you he walked free."

Athos stared at him. "Oh, God."

Porthos heaved himself up again, feeling heavier than he’d ever felt in his life. "How did you feel, Athos?" he asked quietly. "How did you feel, afterwards? Knowing he was free to start again? How do you feel now, knowing that somewhere out there, there’s girls shut in vans, girls locked in hotel rooms, girls being promised a new life only to end up in sexual slavery? Thanks to you? Did you ever even see the evidence against him? You must have, right? Did you read the accounts of the girls I spoke to, the ones brave enough to speak out? Did you ever give any of it a second thought afterwards, or did you just bank your pay-cheque and move on?"

"He always swore he was innocent," Athos said quietly. "There _was_ no concrete evidence that would have convicted him. It was all circumstantial."

"But there was enough to convince a jury. Wasn’t there? That was why you had to get the case thrown out before it came to that, wasn’t it?" Porthos sounded ragged, like he was an inch away from actual tears. "And don’t give me that shit about innocence. You’d never have got where you did in life if you were that gullible."

Athos looked down, realising with distant surprise he’d knotted his hands together to stop them shaking. "You’ve always known what I did for a living Porthos," he said quietly. "And you also know perfectly well that I don’t do it any more. And why." 

A public breakdown, and lengthy rehabilitation. A lingering dependency on prescription sedatives. A complete withdrawal from public life and the end of a promising career. Porthos knew all that, knew with a sense of shame that despite his accusations Athos had never been unaffected by his professional choices and had paid a higher price for them than he probably deserved. But this – this case was too close to home, and he stared helplessly at Athos, finding himself unable to simply forgive and forget.

"Are you seriously going to hold this against me?" Athos asked tiredly when it became apparent Porthos wasn’t going to speak. "Something that happened three years before we met?" 

He took a step forward, reaching out to take Porthos’ hands. "What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I fucked up your case, I’m sorry I worked for the wrong side, I’m sorry I – I’m sorry. For everything. Forgive me?"

Porthos withdrew his hands from Athos’ grasp, gently but firmly. 

"I’m sorry Athos. I don’t think I can."

Athos stared at him in shock. "Jesus. You’re serious."

Porthos nodded, shamefaced but implacable.

"And do you hold a grudge like this against all your opposing counsels?" 

"Only the ones I’m sleeping with," Porthos muttered. 

"Well congratulations on your professionalism," Athos drawled, considerably hurt and wanting to hit back. "It’s a wonder you don’t get more cases thrown out if you insist on taking everything that personally.

Porthos glared at him. "Seriously? You’re telling a guy with African ancestry he doesn’t have the right to take a slavery case personally?"

Athos winced. "I didn’t mean - "

"Forget it. I’m sorry Athos. For what it’s worth, I really am. If it had been anyone else, any other case – but Bonnaire? No. I’m sorry. It’s a deal-breaker." 

"Then I suggest next time you date someone you ask for a copy of their CV first," Athos replied acidly. "So they don’t turn out to be a disappointment to you. I’m sorry I didn’t match up to your high standards."

"Don’t be so - "

"Don’t be so what? Bitter? Hurt? Surprised? I guess at least this way we _both_ get to feel the other’s an enormous let-down, eh?"

Porthos sighed, giving up. He’d known this conversation was never going to go well, and all he could do now was beat as dignified a retreat as he could muster. "I’m sorry," he murmured again. "I’ll go."

He let himself out, half-wondering if Athos would follow him but nobody appeared on the doorstep behind him, and Porthos drove away in a cloud of misery.

In the kitchen, Athos hadn’t followed him for the simple reason that as soon as Porthos had gone his legs had given out and he was huddled on the stone floor with his back against the cupboards, shaking slightly. After everything he’d been through it had taken a lot of trust for him to enter into a relationship with Porthos, and despite his misgivings he’d come to rely on the man’s stalwart presence and support a huge amount. To have had it all thrown back in his face for something he’d done years ago felt like he’d taken a physical beating. 

It had been only thanks to Porthos’ patient encouragement that he’d almost weaned himself off the sedatives, and the thought hit him that now he’d have to manage without that support. This in turn inevitably reminded him of the pills he still had upstairs in the cabinet. Despite trying to push the temptation away, he couldn’t rid himself of the knowledge that a couple of the pills would mean he could forget all this ever happened for a few hours at least. Deal with it later.

Climbing the stairs with a weariness he hadn’t felt for months, Athos told himself that it really didn’t matter what he took now, there was no point to any of it and no one left to care. 

By the time Porthos walked morosely back into his office, Athos was already deep in a heavily drugged sleep.

\--

Porthos spent the rest of the day in a foul mood, and by the time he went home he’d yelled at nearly everyone in the office for some reason or other. His greatest vitriol he’d reserved for Marcheaux who now couldn’t put a foot right no matter how hard he tried. Despite this, Porthos sensed a smirking satisfaction from the man knowing he’d been the cause of Porthos’ current anguish, and this wound him up all the more.

He reached home that night with a sigh of relief, but his flat felt cold and lonely and Porthos began to realise just how much of his time he'd been spending in Athos' cottage. It always felt warm and cosy there, and there was always food on offer Porthos thought dismally, staring into a fridge that contained a single bottle of beer and some mouldy cheese. 

He phoned for a takeaway and drank the beer while he was waiting, slumped on the sofa and lost in thought. Now the initial flush of anger had faded he was mostly feeling bewildered and sorry for himself. Things had happened so fast – this morning he’d been in a relationship that had been going better than any other he could remember – and now here he was, alone, single and with only his sense of outrage to keep him warm.

Porthos wondered what Athos was doing, how he was feeling, whether he was upset. He pushed the thought away guiltily. It was better to believe Athos was angry himself, defensive of his actions, unrepentant. It made what Porthos had just done to him easier to justify.

Feeling more and more uncomfortable and embarrassed about his behaviour Porthos dug out his original notes on the Bonnaire case and went over them as he ate, in an effort to vindicate his decision. Rather than reigniting his anger, they jut made him feel sad and rather sick. So much wasted work, so many people who had risked everything to help bring the man to justice, only to see him walk free.

In the end it had been a lapse in procedure when Bonnaire was arrested that had sunk them, unravelled the case before it had even begun. The arrest had been declared unlawful, and the suit against him thrown out.

Porthos found it on the last page of his notes, the crumpled sheet that he remembered screwing into a ball in disbelieving rage when the news of the decision came through. Hidden in the detail, and he wondered now if he’d ever even taken it in. _"Acting for the defence, Mr. A. de la Fère."_

\--

The days that followed were increasingly miserable. Porthos went about his work in a complete funk, acting purely on autopilot and knowing deep down that he was being unprofessional. Athos’ accusatory words about taking things too personally and letting it affect his work came back to haunt him, and he shrugged them off uncomfortably. He cared, that was all. How many people cared about their work these days? It was a good thing, not something to be sneered at. He could just imagine Athos in a courtroom, cold, dispassionate bastard.

Porthos sighed. His experience of Athos had never been that, and if he was honest he couldn’t really imagine it. In fact it was so far removed from the man he knew Porthos found himself bewildered all over again. It wasn’t as if Athos had protested that he’d been forced to take the case, or ventured an opinion that at least on a personal level he’d despised the man. Porthos wished he had. Why _hadn’t_ he? 

Unable to just dismiss the whole thing from his mind Porthos accidentally spent an entire afternoon researching Athos' case history. There'd been more than one client of the same ilk as Bonnaire, but there'd also been a number of high profile cases Athos had won against the odds for altogether more deserving people. 

Reading through the court files and newspaper reports, Porthos built up a picture of a man he'd scarcely understood existed. He'd known Athos had been a top-flight lawyer, but hadn't appreciated just how high profile some of the cases had been. There were photographs and even news footage from some of the cases, and as Porthos watched the articulate man in the expensive suit giving interviews, he hardly recognised him. He knew Athos had been through significant trauma, but he hadn't truly appreciated up to now exactly what the breakdown had cost him, or how much it had changed him.

Further investigation into his background revealed Athos had also apparently spent a good chunk of his spare time volunteering his services for a veteran’s charity, providing free legal advice for wounded and disabled service people facing discrimination or seeking compensation. Porthos shifted irritably in his seat. He’d been hoping to build up a picture of a man he could justifiably hate, but it seemed even while in his peak shifty lawyer phase, Athos had had his decent side. 

Porthos finally stopped when one of his searches turned up the reports into the death of Athos' fiancée. He'd never seen a picture of her before, and stared uncomfortably at the photograph for a long time before closing it with a convulsive stab at the keyboard.

\--

The days crawled past, and Porthos felt more and more wretched. He missed Athos with an ache that wouldn’t let him settle, and as time went by and he regained a little perspective he began to suspect he may have over-reacted. Slightly. A bit. Maybe massively. The Bonnaire case was dead and buried, and being angry at Athos for doing his job wasn’t going to resurrect it.

He'd fucked up. He had to face this fact. But maybe, just maybe with some heroic level grovelling it wasn’t too late to fix things.

\--

When Athos opened his front door Porthos immediately forgot what he was going to say in shock. Athos looked terrible, with a grey pallor and red rimmed eyes, lank hair and slightly unfocussed gaze. He leaned on the door post as if unable to stand up of his own volition.

"Athos? Are you alright?"

"Oh, never better," Athos said with a bitter irony. "Actually I’m glad you’re here." 

The flicker of hope this kindled in Porthos turned to confusion as Athos reached down behind the door and handed him a carrier bag.

"What’s this?" Porthos asked in surprise, taking it automatically.

"Your things. I was going to send them on."

Porthos looked inside the bag and saw a scattering of toiletries, a shirt, and an iPad. All his.

"Athos – can we talk about this?"

"What’s to talk about? You made your feelings abundantly clear."

"Look, I was angry. And I was an idiot. I’m sorry, okay? Athos please, forgive me. I’ve made a hideous mistake."

"Like you were prepared to forgive me you mean? And if I did, how long before you dredged up some other client of mine you felt like holding against me? Or have you gone through my entire case history by now, and judged me accordingly?"

This was closer to the truth than Porthos was comfortable admitting, but Athos was shaking his head with a tired misery. "I’m sorry, I can’t go through life waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just can’t. I need someone I can trust. Someone I can rely on. I thought that was you, but I guess not."

"Athos don’t do this!"

"I didn’t. You did. Goodbye Porthos." 

Before he could react Athos had closed the door in his face, and no amount of knocking and shouting through the letterbox could get him to open it again.

\--

Athos woke the next morning still in the clothes he’d passed out in, drugged into medicated oblivion within an hour of Porthos’ visit. He dragged himself into the bathroom and stared in disgust at his reflection in the mirror. Something had to change, and it was going to have to be him.

\--

The bell over the estate agent's door made the woman at the desk look up, and when she saw who it was she smiled. 

"Athos! This is a nice surprise. I hope Wilfred’s not up to his old tricks?"

"Hello Sylvie." Athos closed the door behind him and came over to sit in the visitor’s chair. "And no, actually I’m here about something else entirely."

\--

"You're doing _what?_ " Sitting at Athos' kitchen table having dropped in for a cup of tea prior to her date with d'Artagnan, Constance stared up at him as he delivered his surprising news.

Athos folded his arms defensively. "Anyone would think you didn’t want me to come back." 

"No, I do, you know I do. It’s just – the job made you ill, Athos."

"It wasn't the job," Athos said quietly. "You know that. I just - after what happened I should have taken a break, but I did exactly the opposite and threw myself into it harder than ever. Burnt myself out." He stared miserably out of the window. "Work was all I had left. Maybe if I hadn't been so fixated on it in the first place I'd have been with her that night. Maybe if I had - " he let the thought tail off, and Constance glared at him.

"Then maybe you'd be dead and all. Don't you dare tell me you've been blaming yourself all this time?"

Athos just sighed, and didn't answer. 

"Look, Porthos made you happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you. Don't throw it all away just because of stupid male pride."

"It’s over, Constance," Athos said flatly. 

"It doesn’t have to be. If you weren’t such a stubborn twit – look, I know he hurt you. But you said he tried to apologise?" Constance was interrupted by the chirp of her phone, and she looked down at the message. "D'Artagnan's outside, I've got to go. Look, Athos, you know I'd love for you to come back. Just - make sure you're doing it for the right reasons."

\--

"You know, I was half-worried you wouldn’t want to see me," d’Artagnan murmured as they swished through the fallen leaves covering the track.

"Whyever not?" Constance looked surprised, then rolled her eyes. "What, just ‘cause your boss and my boss have fallen out, we’re not allowed to see each other? I have got a will of me own you know." 

"What happened, anyway?" d’Artagnan asked. "Porthos won’t talk about it. Just growls at me if I so much as mention Athos."

"Porthos bloody dumped him, that’s what happened," Constance exclaimed indignantly, coming to a sudden stop and glaring at him. "For something he did years before they bloody met!"

D’Artagnan put his hands up and backed away in mock alarm. "Alright, keep your hair on. I didn’t make him do it." 

"No. I know. Sorry." Constance sighed and d’Artagnan took hold of her hand as they resumed walking. 

"Maybe he’ll apologise?" D’Artagnan ventured. "When he’s had a chance to calm down? He seems pretty cut up about it, I can’t imagine he’s happy with the outcome."

"He already has," Constance admitted to his surprise. "Expect Athos is such a bloody stubborn twit that he won’t take him back. So now they’re both miserable as sin and refusing to do anything about it."

"Oh. Crap." 

There didn’t seem to be much more they could say on the matter, so they walked on in silence for a while. The track wound down between dripping trees, before opening out on the edge of a flooded quarry. 

Dark water spread out before them, the high banks and trees above making it look black and bottomless. Constance shivered. "Well that’s creepy as fuck." 

Athos had recommended it as a nice walk, and she wondered if it reflected his state of mind before deciding that he’d probably just come here over the summer. Blue skies and birdsong probably went a long way towards making it look less like a portal to the netherworld. 

The thought made her realise that it was eerily quiet, no birds, no wind in the trees. She was glad d’Artagnan was with her, reflecting that this would be an unpleasant place to be alone in.

The only noise was from a narrow torrent of water tumbling down into the pool from a second lake on a higher level, and as they slowly followed the path around the edge Constance realised the constant sound of running water was having an unfortunate effect.

"What’s the matter?" asked d’Artagnan, eventually noticing her rather antsy fidgeting. 

"I really need a wee," Constance admitted. 

He snorted with sympathetic laughter. "We’re miles from a bog. You’ll have to go in the bushes."

"That’s easy for you to say!" Constance objected. "It’s harder for us you know!"

"There’s nobody around," he assured her. "Go for it. I’ll keep watch."

"You think this is funny, don’t you?" she muttered, but waded off into the undergrowth nonetheless.

Once she was a decent distance away and out of sight behind the foliage Constance started unfastening her coat and jeans, trying to find a firm footing on the rain-sodden earth. The damp leaf-mould sank unevenly beneath her boots and she shifted her weight, throwing out her arms to try and keep her balance as the ground suddenly crumbled away beneath her.

With an ominous slithering rumble, an entire section of bank abruptly gave way and succumbed to gravity, taking Constance with it.

She fell with a startled cry, barely having time to picture the deep, black, icy water waiting for her ten metres below before she landed with a thump that knocked the breath out of her. Fortunately the landing was relatively soft, but bits of earth, gravel and plant life continued to cascade down on her from above, making her choke and splutter.

She dragged herself under a rocky overhang to shelter from the worst of it. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the first thing that met her gaze was an enormous skull, and she stifled a yelp. It was an animal of some kind, horse, or cow perhaps and Constance was just wondering how an animal that large had managed to die halfway up a cliff when she realised it was fixed into the ground on a pole. 

Backing away uneasily, as she turned she came face to face with a second skull looming out of the shadows, this one with huge threatening antlers. Looking wildly about her Constance only now registered the half-melted candles set into ledges on the rock, and the carefully positioned circle of quartz stones. She'd fallen right into the middle of it.

Distantly she became aware of d'Artagnan crashing through the undergrowth, shouting for her.

"Here! I'm here. I'm okay." Constance winced. She felt bruised from head to toe, but to her relief nothing appeared to be broken. 

The falling debris seemed to have slowed and she risked crawling back into daylight. The ground was unpleasantly wet and spongy, and groping for purchase on the sloping bank her searching fingers met another cold hand. She grasped it thankfully, thinking d'Artagnan had found her and was just wondering why he wasn't pulling her up, when he shouted again from somewhere above.

Constance shook the hair out of her eyes and realised to her unutterable horror that she was holding the hand of a corpse. Her last remaining nerve finally broke, and she screamed.

\--

Porthos pulled in behind the flashing blue lights in the lay-by and tramped up through the woods to find d'Artagnan directing the uniforms taping off the perimeter.

"Morning sir. Sorry to disturb you on your day off."

"It's fine. Not like I was doing anything else," Porthos said shortly. "What have we got here?"

"Looks like a double murder."

"You said Constance found them?" he asked, looking around for her with a frown.

"Yes. She, er, sort of fell on them. The bank gave way while she was er - she was - she was above them. She was understandably upset, so I walked her back to the village and came back here to secure the site. Athos is looking after her." 

Porthos grunted at this awkward but not unexpected piece of news and d'Artagnan looked apologetic.

"We could ask her to come in to the station if you need to speak to her? But she was pretty upset."

Porthos groaned. "No, I’ve got to be professional about this. I’ll go down there." He peered at d'Artagnan, who looked unaccustomedly flustered and fidgety. "Is there something else you're not telling me?"

"Well it's just - it's weird sir."

"Weird? That a technical term is it? What is?"

"The bodies sir. It looks like - well. I don't want to say."

"What do you mean you don't want to say?" Porthos snapped, feeling that the universe was being unduly irritating recently. 

"Well I might be - no, I think you should take a look sir. Make your own mind up. I don't want to influence your first impression."

Porthos followed him down to the lower path and took in the scene. Two bodies, a man and a woman, both in their twenties at a guess, Caucasian, fully dressed, dead for a couple of days at least. Something had started nibbling, but he suspected that had happened post mortem. 

He took in the circle of gleaming white stones, the candles, the skulls and the ornately fashioned dagger hilts protruding from the chests of both corpses and looked back at d'Artagnan.

"That thing you were reluctant to say back there," he said heavily. "Would it, by any chance, have been the words 'human sacrifice'?" 

\--


	2. Chapter 2

To Porthos' relief Athos opened the door with a wary nod that suggested he’d been expecting the visit. But Porthos’ first question concerned something that had put the case right out of his mind – the burgundy estate agent’s board outside the house.

"What’s all that about?" he asked, as Athos let him in.

"I’m going back to London," Athos told him. "There’s nothing for me here any more."

Porthos stamped on the immediate spike of guilt this provoked. Athos had spurned his attempted apology and he wasn’t going to be manipulated. "To do what?" 

"I’ve accepted my old job back."

That did stop Porthos in his tracks. "What, the one that half killed you?" he blurted.

"I’ll be on a reduced caseload at first," Athos admitted. "But I need to do something. If I stay here – I’m afraid of what will happen. Of what I’ll become."

"What do you mean?"

Athos shook his head, with a glance down the hallway to make sure they weren’t overheard. 

"The longer I spend at a loose end, the greater my reliance on the pills," he admitted. "I need something to give me a reason to kick them for good, and going back to work is the only thing I can think of."

"But – you were doing so well."

"And then I lost my sole remaining prop," Athos said, his expression devoid of all emotion. "And I need to find something else. Now, you’re here to see Constance, I assume?"

"Will she help you? With the addiction?" Porthos reached out and grabbed his arm as Athos turned away.

Athos hesitated. "She doesn’t know."

"Do your employers?"

Athos turned on him with a look of fury, but kept his voice to a whisper. "Are you threatening me?"

Porthos raised his hands in apology and surrender. "No. No of course not. I just want to know you’ll be okay. That you’ll have people around you who understand."

"I’m done with trusting people," Athos said. "It only ends up hurting more when they throw you under the bus." He turned and marched off down the hallway before Porthos could reply.

Constance was sitting in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a steaming mug and looking shaken but determined. 

Porthos nodded respectfully to her. "Ms Bonacieux. I realise you've had a considerable shock, but if you're up to it I need to ask you a few questions."

"Of course." Constance nodded. She'd got most of her colour back, and was feeling faintly embarrassed.

"Could you tell me what happened? Describe the events, and what you saw, as best you remember?"

Constance related her experience as Porthos made notes. He'd angled his chair so Athos wasn't in his line of sight, but he was still achingly conscious of the man's presence.

"What were you doing right on the edge of the quarry in the first place?" Porthos asked. "You weren't with d'Artagnan at that point?"

Constance blushed. "I'd wandered off the path. I - well, I needed a wee if you must know. I'd gone into the bushes."

Porthos stopped writing. "Right. You, er - had you - you weren't -"

"I didn't piss on your crime scene, if that's what you're worried about," Constance retorted. Somewhere behind her Athos stifled a choked laugh and she glared round at him. "And you can shurr'up and all."

"Thank you for your time. I think that's all for now." Porthos stood up hastily and put his notebook away. "I'll see myself out."

When he'd gone Constance and Athos looked at each other. "Well that was fairly painless," Constance conceded.

"Probably helped that you were in the company of a certain detective sergeant," Athos said. "I'm guessing the questions would have been a lot more pointed if you'd been a random member of the public who'd happened across it. Sounds bizarre, what you described."

"Want a look?"

"I hardly think Porthos is going to give me a guided tour, given recent events."

"He doesn't have to." Constance took out her phone and Athos boggled at her.

"You took a photograph?" 

"Yes. Well after I'd got over the shock I realised I'd just fallen into the middle of a murder scene didn't I? I didn't want to be accused of messing up anything more than I already had, so I thought I'd better get a shot of things as they were."

"Does d'Artagnan know you took this?" Athos asked, taking the phone from her and staring at the lurid picture.

"No." Constance looked furtive. "I may have forgotten to mention it."

"Could you send it to me?"

"Yes, if you want." Constance wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

Athos sighed. "I don't know really. Force of habit I suppose. Not like I'm going to be any use to Porthos now, is it?"

"You could offer. He might be glad of the local knowledge," Constance said hopefully, but Athos shook his head. 

"No. If he wants my advice he can bloody well ask for it, and I think I can hear hell freezing over." 

"Do you know them?" Constance asked, tactfully changing the subject as she took the phone back. "The dead couple?"

"No. I've never seen them before. But that doesn't mean anything, there's plenty of people in the village I've never met." He gave her a rueful smile. "I don't get out much."

\--

"Their names were Alison Sonderby and Trevor Carmichael," reported d’Artagnan to the officers gathered for the briefing. "We know this mainly due to the fact both parties still had their wallets on them, complete with photo ID."

"Not a robbery then," somebody commented and Marcheaux snorted derisively.

"You get many Satanist muggings round here, do you? Maybe I’d’ve been safer staying in the smoke."

"We don’t know it’s Satanists," Porthos interrupted. "Let’s keep an open mind here, eh?"

"Right. Yeah. Sorry. See what you mean. Could equally be the Women’s Institute."

This got a ripple of laughter from the room at large, but Porthos let it pass. "Who were they?" he asked d’Artagnan. "Do we know what they were doing there in the first place? Were they known to be members of any occult groups?"

D’Artagnan shook his head, reading from his notes. "From what initial enquiries have turned up they were a couple, had been co-habiting for a number of years but weren’t actually married."

"Naughty naughty," Marcheaux murmured, eliciting a further snigger from the room, quickly suppressed by a glare from Porthos.

"Do I need to remind you all that two people have lost their lives here?" he snapped. "Could I trouble you to at least try and take it seriously?"

There was a generally resentful shifting in seats, and Porthos inwardly cursed Marcheaux for stirring up trouble. He’d built up a good, tight team here but since Marcheaux had come back it was starting to show the cracks. Somehow Marcheaux had managed to make himself popular amongst the rank and file, and it came as an unpleasant shock to Porthos to realise that openly criticising the man was making _him_ look like the villain. 

_Was_ he being unfair? Would he have been as quick to lash out if it had been d’Artagnan who’d made such a stupid joke? But then, he hadn’t, Porthos thought firmly. And second guessing himself wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

D’Artagnan continued with the briefing, manfully trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. 

"They lived on the outskirts of town here, he worked for the council, she worked for an investment broker. Both regular church-goers, according to their pastor. No children, no criminal record, no suggestion they had any more – fringe – interests. Only membership seems to have been of the Sussex Ornithological Society, which might explain what they were doing in the woods up at Owlbrook."

"SOS," Marcheaux muttered. "Rather apt." He caught Porthos’ eye and cleared his throat. "SOS? Sussex Ornith- never mind."

"When you’ve got a sensible contribution to make, I’ll be glad to hear it."

Marcheaux considered. "Did they have any gear on them?"

Porthos stared at him, wondering for a moment if he meant drugs. "Gear?"

"Birdwatching gear. You know. Your average twitcher’s normally toting hundreds of quids-worth of cameras and telescopes and stuff? Could be a robbery gone wrong, someone tried to cover it up."

Marcheaux had made a valid point, and for some reason this irritated Porthos more than when he’d been taking the piss. He looked to d’Artagnan, who shook his head.

"Not so much as a bird book between them. But I guess you can look stuff up on your phone these days."

"Did we recover their phones as well?" Porthos asked. "Anything on them to suggest what they’d been up to?"

"Nothing helpful. Few shots of each other in the woods, and general scenery. Date stamp was two days previously, so that narrows down the time of death. We’ve found their car too, parked in the centre of the village. Apparently people often leave cars there for days at a time as some of the older cottages don’t have driveways, so nobody thought anything of it."

Porthos slid off the desk he’d been perching on and straightened up decisively. "Right. Two strands of enquiry. D’Artagnan I want you to concentrate on the dead couple, find out if anyone had reason for wanting them dead. What did he do at the council, had he just had someone’s home repossessed, had their children taken away? You said she worked in investments, had she just sold someone a pup, lost them their life savings? Find out. Marcheaux, I want you to follow up the alternative angle, that they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time – ritual sacrifice or robbery gone wrong, explore every possibility."

"And what will you be doing?" 

Porthos ignored the implicit challenge in the words. "I’m going over to Owlbrook. There’s somebody there I want to talk to in relation to occult goings on in the area."

\--

The bell over the door jingled merrily as Athos entered the shop and he paused for a moment, fighting the urge to sneeze as the aroma of several different incenses assailed his nose. To his relief there were no other customers and he made his way over to the desk, where an aristocratic-looking woman reclined somewhat regally in a floor-length robe patterned with stars. It wasn’t terribly warm in the shop, and Athos strongly suspected that to pull off the wafty effect without shivering she was also sporting thermal underwear.

"Mr la Fère. You've still not graced the moot with your presence." She gave him an admonishing smile. 

"Please. Call me Athos." He smiled back, apologetically. "Sorry, things have been a little up in the air recently." Since they’d first met, Ninon had been on at him every time they’d subsequently crossed paths to come to a meeting of the local pagan group. He’d wondered aloud once to Porthos whether they were that desperate for numbers and Porthos had laughed and suggested she probably just fancied him. 

It was a possibility that genuinely hadn’t occurred to him, and now with a faint twinge of conscience he wondered if it was reasonable to take advantage of that to get information out of her. But then, his ethics had already been hauled over the coals so what did it matter? He had no one to defend himself to any more. 

Still, someone had committed double murder in the place he’d unknowingly sent Constance for a nice walk, and Athos was determined to see them brought to justice for upsetting her. Regardless of who he had to upset in turn, to get to the truth.

"Is it true what they're saying?" Ninon asked, obligingly providing him with the opening he needed. "That there's been a death up at Butcher's Hollow?"

"Yes. Two, actually. In fact, I need your advice on the circumstances, if you don’t mind." 

"I’ve always felt it was a benighted place," she said darkly. "A scar on the earth. It leaves an echo, that kind of thing."

Athos cast an eye over the large display of crystals she had for sale, but held his tongue. "Well I don’t think it was the quarry that killed them. They were murdered."

"Murdered?" She sounded shocked but also faintly titillated, and Athos suspected the rumour mill would already have done its job in suggesting the deaths had been no accident. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, if it didn’t come as a complete surprise to her. But he had to be sure.

"Would you mind taking a look at something for me?" He took out his phone and pulled up the picture Constance had sent him. "The way they were laid out was rather – unusual. I’d appreciate your thoughts." He passed the phone across the counter.

Ninon studied the photograph closely for a second, then looked up at Athos in shock as the contents of it sank in. "Is that – are those the bodies?"

"Yes." 

She paled. "You don't mess around, do you?" she asked hoarsely, one hand protectively splayed at her throat.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. But you can see why I thought you might be able to help."

Ninon convulsively pushed the phone back towards him, flustered and angry. "You think this is what I do? You think this kind of thing has any part in what I do? Maybe if you’d actually bothered to come along and find out, you wouldn’t have to ask. We worship nature, _Mr_ La Fère, in all Her aspects. The Lord and the Lady, the sun and the moon. Violent death has no part in that."

"I’m sorry," Athos said again more softly. "But two people are dead, and my friend found them, and I want to know how they came to be there. Is there any chance – I’m not accusing you, not for a minute – but is there any chance a different group might be working in the area, along more – well, sinister lines?"

"No self-respecting Pagan would even countenance such a thing!"

"What about the non-self-respecting ones? Or – are Satanists even a thing? I don’t mean the American church lot, I suppose I mean - " Athos sighed. "I don’t know what I mean. That’s why I’m asking."

Ninon stared at him, visibly resettling herself like a ruffled bird. "I suppose there are – certain traditions that countenance sacrifice. But we’re talking chickens, not people. Blood and bone magic - undeniably powerful, but not something I’d feel qualified to comment on. I’ve certainly never been aware of any practitioners in this area." She gave him an uncertain smile. "British Paganism is more about celebrating the cycle of seasons." 

Athos pushed the phone gently back across the counter. "I’m not talking about voodoo. I don’t think."

"Vodun," she corrected automatically, shying away from looking down at the screen.

"Would you mind having another look? Just at the bits and pieces. Does it suggest a particular tradition to you? Or person, even? I imagine ritual set-ups are almost as good as a fingerprint, if you know what you’re looking at."

"If you’re thinking black magic," she said flatly, "you’ve been reading too many Gothic novels." 

"What if someone else had?" Athos wondered. "Presumably if someone was mad enough to believe a human sacrifice would be effective they might be mad enough to try it? It could be the work of a lone psychopath, rather than an established group?"

"It would be hard for one person to co-ordinate a double sacrifice," Ninon said. "And I imagine harder still to keep a murder quiet if it was carried out by a group. People gossip. Pagans, regrettably, more than most."

Having started considering the logistics of it, Ninon reluctantly took another look at the picture, concentrating on the trappings of the scene, rather than the gruesome corpses.

"It's odd," she said after a moment.

"What is?"

"The two skulls. Horse, I’d say, and stag. It's not unknown for a working group to have a skull as a focus for their rituals. As a cult object, I suppose you might say. But it would be an object of great veneration. They're not all that easy to come by, you can't just walk into a shop and buy one. It would often be passed down, sometimes for generations. So say a group dedicated to Herne might have a stag's skull, a Mithraic group might have a bull and so on. Some groups even work with a human skull. But to have a mixture of types is unusual. And to leave them behind seems unprecedented. I’m assuming they weren’t interrupted?"

Athos shook his head. "The bodies seem to have been there a while."

"Then it’s odd that the skulls were left, that’s all I’m saying. They were clearly meant to be seen."

"Then you think it's a set up? Just stage dressing, as it were?"

Ninon tapped her nails thoughtfully on the counter. "The other thing that occurs to me - if you _were_ of a mind to perform a human sacrifice - why would you draw attention to it like this? Why not dispose of the bodies some other way? You could weight something down and throw it into the pool there, and it wouldn't be seen for years, if ever."

"Good point." Athos moved the photograph around with his finger, studying it upside down. "What about their clothing? Not exactly my idea of sacrificial garb."

"You were expecting something white and floaty?" Ninon gave him a pitying look. "I think you'll find most groups working outside in the British countryside today are more likely to be wearing wellingtons and a stout mackintosh than skipping around skyclad."

"Skyclad?" Athos asked faintly, and she snorted.

"Nude. It has a firm ritual basis you know, it's not for titillation. And at this time of year it's more often reserved for indoor gatherings."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Although - " Ninon grimaced and steeled herself to take another look at the picture. "You raise a valid question. If I _was_ going to sacrifice someone – theoretically, you understand?"

"Theoretically."

"It would surely be a lot easier if they were undressed. Stabbing someone through a raincoat has got to be harder than just through skin?"

"Remind me never to piss you off," Athos murmured and she gave a brittle laugh, handing back the phone and unconsciously wiping her hand on her robe. 

"You wanted to see my reaction, didn't you?" she said quietly. "Did you really think I was implicated?"

"No. Of course not." Athos gave her a bland expression that didn’t fool her for a second.

"Did I pass?"

"With flying colours."

Ninon sighed. "Be careful, won’t you? Whoever did this is dangerous. Anyone who can kill twice and not care about their work being found is not to be trifled with. And you’re not a policeman."

"Don’t worry. My enquiries are strictly hands-off these days."

"But I do worry." She looked troubled. "I sense things, you see. And I can feel darkness – such utter darkness. It’s coming."

"For me?" Athos asked lightly. He had rather more respect for the supernatural these days, but where Ninon was concerned he was still liable to take her ominous pronouncements with a large pinch of salt.

"I’m not sure. You, or someone close to you."

"Then there’s nothing to be worried about." Athos put his phone away and turned to leave. "There is no one close to me."

\--

Porthos had never been into The Wiccan Well before, and stared around the shop with deep misgivings. He was inspecting a homeopathy display when Ninon emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop, arms folded defensively.

"I'm fully certified I'll have you know."

"What in, water purity?"

Ninon glowered at him, and he took out his ID. "Police."

"I know who you are, Inspector. What can I do for you? Balance your chakras, perhaps? Your aura’s a very alarming colour you know. Very dark. You've suffered a recent loss, I think?"

Porthos almost took a step backwards, then reminded himself that in a village this size everybody knew everyone else's business.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind. Did you know Alison Sonderby or Trevor Carmichael?"

"I take it from the past tense they're no longer with us? Never heard of them, sorry."

"I've been speaking to the vicar. They were regular attendees at one of the churches under his care."

"Then they were unlikely to have spent much time in here, I'm sure you'll agree."

"You style yourself a witch I understand, Miss Larroque?"

"I prefer the term priestess, actually. But I wouldn't expect you to appreciate the difference. And it's Ms."

"But you do take part in what you consider to be witchcraft? Magic and stuff?"

"If by 'magic and stuff' you mean reverence for nature in a celebratory ritual context, then yes."

"You ever practise up at Butcher's Hollow?"

"What are you getting at, Inspector?"

"Just answer the question."

"You know, one of the things I like about this country is its religious freedom. I have a right to practice my beliefs without harassment or undue interference from the authorities. And I object to your tone."

Porthos stared at her disbelievingly. "Seriously? You're accusing me of discrimination?"

Ninon looked slightly abashed, but persisted. "If the cap fits...ask yourself Inspector. When you spoke with the vicar just now, was your manner as hostile, your assumptions as disparaging of his beliefs? Why aren't you questioning the people that did know them, rather than those who didn't?" 

"Oh, we're talking to everyone, believe me. You're absolutely sure you never came into contact with the deceased couple?" Porthos held out a printed photograph, which this time Ninon was relieved to note had been taken when they were still alive. 

She shook her head impatiently. "I've told you, I never saw them before."

"There must be tensions though, right? Between your lot and the local Christian community maybe?"

"It's my experience that those following a truly spiritual path are more likely to find common ground than otherwise, regardless of their tradition. Differences of opinion tend to confine themselves to internet forums or the occasional argument in the pub, Inspector. They're hardly likely to extend to ritual murder."

Porthos conceded the point with a grunt. "I suppose - hang about." He looked up with sudden suspicion. "Who said anything about ritual murder?"

\--

When Athos got back from talking to Ninon he'd sat down and immediately written up everything she'd told him before it got confused or forgotten, as had previously been his habit following interviews where he hadn't been able to take notes. The information she'd provided was suggestive if not wholly decisive, and he wondered if it really was the work of someone who considered they were practising the dark arts, or just an attempt at misdirection. 

"What do you reckon Wilfred?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Have we really got a bunch of murderous Satanists in the village? Knock once for yes, twice for no."

A moment later a brisk double rap echoed down the hall and Athos went rigid. A moment later it sounded again, and he realised it was someone at the front door.

"Bloody idiot," he muttered, going to answer it. "Jumping at shadows again."

He pulled open the door without thinking, and was wrongfooted to find Porthos standing there. His stony expression suggested he hadn’t come to make amends, and Athos glared at him on principle. "Now what?"

"First of all, I'd like to know how you got a photograph of my crime scene."

" _Your_ crime scene?" Athos raised an eyebrow. "Well, let's see now, who discovered _your_ crime scene? Call yourself a detective?"

Porthos groaned. "Constance."

"Full marks."

"You've still got no business going round showing it to people! That’s restricted information!"

" _People_ being Ninon, I presume? I just thought she might tell me more than she'd be willing to share with the filth. She seems to like me for some reason. But obviously she'll have told you everything she told me, so there'll be no point in me reiterating it, will there?"

Porthos stifled another groan. "She told me sod all," he admitted.

"Well, I'll be sure to pass the information on to Constance, who can tell d'Artagnan, who can maybe put it in a report for you?" Athos suggested frostily. 

They stared at each other silently for a moment, then Porthos sighed. "Or, you could just make me a cup of tea and tell me now? Then maybe I could be persuaded not to arrest you for interfering in an ongoing investigation."

Athos fixed him with impassive eyes for a good few seconds further before relenting and letting him in.

Sitting in the kitchen over tea he carefully went over everything Ninon had told him, and Porthos nodded gratefully.

"Thanks. I mean it. I think I got off on the wrong foot with her. She started accusing _me_ of discrimination."

Athos snorted, and Porthos gave him a tired look. "You don't get it, do you? You never will. And that's fine, but I just wish people would stop and think occasionally."

"What don't I get?" Athos asked, needled.

"Where are you from, Athos? De la Fère, what is that, French? You been here since the conquest have you? 1066 and all that?"

"Bit later actually. More around the Revolution." Athos hesitated. "My great great - whatever, was the Comte de la Fère. He didn't much fancy losing his head, so they did a bunk over here."

"Pity they didn't chop a few more off, we might have a more equal society today."

"Oh, you want me dead now?"

"You know I don't. It's just - you know where you're from. You know who your family were, where they were born, down to towns, years, names - I don't. I never can. I don't even know which country my ancestors came from originally. Hell, I was orphaned so young I barely even know anything about my own parents. I’m doubly cut off from everything that makes me me. And that's not something you can ever understand, not really. And it's not something I'd ever wish on you either, even to make you see." 

Porthos put his head in his hands, rubbing his face. "I don't even know where I'm going with this. Maybe I just want you to try and understand why some subjects are always going to be more sensitive for me - more important to me - than others. Why some things I can't help but take personally."

"And that's what makes you a good policeman," Athos said softly. "You care enough to go the extra mile. But when you get that close to a case, that – I won’t say obsessed, but involved – everything else in your life ends up as collateral damage. And trust me, that I do understand."

Porthos finished his tea and stood up sadly. "I'll be going then."

"Yes." Athos remained seated, looking equally bleak. "Yes, I rather think you'd better."

\--

Back in the incident room, Porthos was reconsidering the evidence in the light of the new information gleaned via Athos.

"How long would you say those people had been dead, sergeant?"

D’Artagnan peered at the crime scene photographs pinned to the board. "Given the colour and the fact rigor mortis had passed off again - couple of days? Fits with the phone evidence, and the last time they were seen." 

"That’s what I thought," Porthos said, and d’Artagnan experienced a faint sense of relief that it hadn’t been a trick question. "It’s just – see this here?" He pointed to where the face and arms had clearly been gnawed by something.

"Rats probably. They were lying in a wood."

"That’s my point. For two days, if we’re right. Wouldn’t you expect them to have been a bit more – well, eaten? Foxes, rats, even insects. They’re barely nibbled."

D’Artagnan felt a little queasy at the prospect, but he caught on. "You mean they weren’t killed there?"

"Athos said – Ninon de Larroque told him it looked like a set-up," Porthos corrected himself hastily. "Like it had been staged, rather than part of a genuine ritual. What if they were killed elsewhere and laid out like this to deflect attention?"

"From what?"

"A murder of a quite different kind," Porthos said grimly. 

He picked up the evidence bag containing one of the daggers. "Ath- _Larroque_ made another point. How it would be harder to knife somebody through clothing. These hardly look up to the job. Spindly little ornamental things."

"Could be sharpened though."

"Yeah. But they were both wearing decent thick outdoor wear. These look like they should be on somebody’s mantelpiece." He put it down and picked up the stag skull. There was a wooden plaque fixed to the back, holding it together. "And talking of which, this looks like it was nicked from some laird’s dining room. Get people checking the list of recently reported thefts, also sales from local antique shops, auction rooms, even sodding eBay. I want to know if this was bought recently. And get a description of the daggers into circulation as well."

"Yes sir." D’Artagnan was about to leave when Marcheaux came in, holding a print-out.

"Well?" Porthos was trying not to be unreasonably gruff with him but it was an ongoing battle.

"PM and SOCO reports sir. They were knifed alright - but not with the weapons we’ve got here." He paused dramatically, enjoying their expressions.

"Get on with it," Porthos growled. "What do you mean?"

"They were both stabbed by something with a much wider blade, probably some sort of hunting knife, and probably the same one. The daggers we’ve got here were inserted after death."

"What else?"

"They definitely weren’t killed where they were found, there wasn’t nearly enough blood in the earth they were lying on."

"Which presumably supports the argument that it wasn’t some kind of sacrificial rite," Porthos mused. "Which I’m assuming the victims would have needed to be very much present for. So it’s a deflection after all, just so much window dressing."

"Why would you set up something like that?"

"To scare people away? I want to take another look at that quarry."

\--

The trees were still dripping with the morning's rain as Porthos made his way up the path. The main access route to the quarry was cordoned off, but he let himself through the temporary gate and stood looking down at the dark water. 

He'd played here as a child, having been fostered in the village for a while. All local children were forbidden from coming here alone due to the risk of drowning, and consequently it drew them like a magnet.

He'd come here again over the summer, with Athos. They'd walked the woodland paths together, hand in hand, enjoying the sunshine. The memory now was almost physically painful, and Porthos pushed it away.

The main footpath looped around the top of the quarry, but the bodies had been found on the narrower, lower route, and Porthos picked his way carefully along it. Not so many people walked this way as it was a dead end, but Porthos still found it surprising that the corpses had remained undiscovered as long as they apparently had.

He passed the taped-off site where the bodies had lain, clambering over the loose fall of rock and earth that had brought Constance down with it. 

Some way further on the path ended at a boarded up shack, the entrance to an old adit. When the quarry had reached the end of its economic potential as a source of local building stone it had had a brief new lease of life when gypsum deposits had been discovered. For ten years the quarry had been worked as a mine until those seams too were exhausted, and the place was abandoned and left to flood.

The front of the dilapidated shack was plastered in faded warning and 'keep out' signs, but Porthos noticed the door was loose and pulled it open without difficulty. The scatter of crisp bags and sweet wrappers on the floor inside suggested it was used as a hideaway by the local kids, and Porthos shook his head in nostalgic disapproval.

There was more than one opening to the mine and he'd ventured into several as a child. Always feeling like an outsider, the only black boy in the village, he'd tried to build his stock in the eyes of his peers by being more reckless than any of them. He'd gone further into the tunnels than any of his friends, far enough down to be enclosed by utter darkness, just because he'd been dared to.

He winced, looking back on his behaviour now with the eyes of an adult. If he caught himself doing that now, he'd give himself a clip round the ear.

There was a scuffling noise outside, and Porthos stepped back into the daylight to find a small group of children staring up at him with startled indignance at his intrusion. Three boys and two girls, ranging from about five to seven or eight, all looking defiantly shifty.

"What you doing in there?" demanded the middle boy accusingly. "That's ours that is."

"Police," said Porthos, and they all shuffled back a step in alarm. "You know it's dangerous in there, right?"

"We don't go right in," said the older girl. 

"It's scary," added the smallest one.

"It's also out of bounds. Like this whole place in fact. How did you get in?"

"There's a gap in the fence," offered the middle boy, only to be promptly shushed by his friends.

"Is there." Porthos folded his arms and looked stern. "Your parents know you're up here? No, thought not. What you up to?"

"We're hunting witches," the smallest girl offered. Porthos winced. Presumably the details of the murder were all round the village by now. 

"We're going to burn them at the stake," said one of the other boys enthusiastically, her brother at a guess. Porthos figured the two of them were probably the children of Athos' occasional housekeeper Trixie Evans, being the only non-white person he'd ever actually noticed residing in the village. 

"Well that's not very nice is it?" he admonished. "Witches aren't bad people." He frowned. "Mostly."

"It's only a game," ventured the eldest boy, and Porthos sighed inwardly. 

"Yeah, I know." To them it was no different from chasing aliens. He just knew that a few years from now a fear of witches could easily become a brick through a pagan shop window. "Still, clear off eh?" Porthos said kindly. "It's not safe to be out here at the moment. There's bad men about. Real ones."

As they turned to run off he had another thought. "Here, hang on. Show me where this gap is."

They scrambled up through the trees, Porthos slipping and sliding and muttering to himself as he followed them as best he could. At the top of the hill there was indeed a hole in the perimeter fence, and the children hurriedly disappeared through it into the forestry beyond.

"Watch out for wolves," Porthos called after them, grinning to himself as this produced several shrieks from the younger members of the gang, already nearly out of sight.

He studied the gap. The quarry had been fenced off along the edge of the forestry plantation precisely to stop people coming unexpectedly across the steep slope which ended in a sheer drop, but a section of it had been trampled down. 

Mixed in with the smaller footprints of the children, who'd obviously been coming and going for some time and would even now be tracking mud across carpets the length and breadth of the village, there were larger, heavier boot prints. Porthos frowned at them curiously, before deciding it was probably one of their own officers, checking the quarry for any further evidence of the killer. 

From where he stood a narrow path lead diagonally down through the trees at a less precipitous route than the one he'd just scrambled up. He followed it down and fetched up at another of the old mine entrances, near to where the water cascaded down from the higher pool into the quarry proper. 

This one he was pleased to see had much newer keep out signs and a decent padlock. He gave the doors an experimental rattle, but despite being old and battered, they were securely fastened.

There didn't seem to be anything else to gain by sticking around, and Porthos trudged back down through the woods. By the time he reached his car it was getting dark and starting to rain, and he shivered. It crossed his mind that a week ago he could have walked down the road and in two minutes been sitting in Athos' warm kitchen with a hot drink, and he sighed. He'd thrown it all away in a fit of self-righteous anger, and now he had to live with his choices. 

\--

In the cottage down the hill Athos stared out at the rain as he pulled the curtains against the gathering dark. Normally the sound of rain on the windows made him feel cosy, but now there was no one to snuggle up with, it just made him shiver.

Rather than face another evening of sitting alone in the silence he went to bed early, swallowing down two sleeping pills to make sure of oblivion, and wondering dismally when he'd started carrying them around with him again.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos hadn't been at the station long the following day when Elodie stuck her head round the door of his office. She’d been recently promoted out of uniform to Detective Constable, and having a sneaking suspicion that DI Du Vallon might have had a helping hand in it, was eager to prove herself.

"We've had a hit on the daggers sir. Antique shop owner in Hastings reckons he sold them to a man a few days ago."

"Oh, you beauty. Does he remember what the bloke looked like? Can we get a sketch artist down there?"

"Better than that sir, because it was less than a week ago he reckons it should still be on the CCTV. He's going to get the footage sent over."

\--

Three hours later they were clustered round a screen in the incident room, watching the fuzzy image of a man standing at a counter.

"Somebody run his face through the system. See if he's got previous," Porthos ordered.

"That may not be necessary," Marcheaux said slowly, squinting at the blurred features. "I think I know that guy."

"Friend of yours?"

"Funny, sir. No, I'm fairly sure he turned up on a job I was working in London."

"Satanists?" Porthos asked hopefully.

"Drugs. Home-grown, commercially distributed. What you might call a cash crop." Marcheaux frowned. "We caught him bang to rights with a consignment, but he had a dodgy lawyer who managed to successfully argue it was for personal use and he got away with a fine. Trust me, if he'd smoked that much he'd still be unconscious."

"When was this?" Porthos asked, heart sinking a little at the mention of a dodgy lawyer.

"About this time last year. Just after I joined the Met."

Porthos was relieved. A year ago Athos would have been resident in the clinic. Safely out of the frame.

"Got a name for us then sergeant?"

"Mmmn...Stephen? Stevens? Something like that. I can check."

"Do it."

\--

Half an hour later Marcheaux hung up the phone triumphantly and swivelled his chair round to face the room. "Stefan Straczynski. Polish father, British mother, last confirmed address in Bedford."

"What's he doing down this way then?" Porthos growled.

"We cleared out his operation. He might have set up again somewhere else."

"Like the quarry?"

"Wouldn't we have noticed a cannabis farm?" d'Artagnan protested. "We've been over every inch of that place."

"Not every inch," Porthos said. "Only the outside. There's got to be miles of tunnels under that hill."

"Can you grow stuff underground?"

Marcheaux grinned. "You'd be amazed at what you can do with a heatlamp and a bit of polythene."

Porthos was staring off into space, picturing a shiny new padlock on a rundown set of old doors.

"I think I know where they are."

\--

Arriving back at the quarry in two cars, Porthos, d’Artagnan, Marcheaux and Elodie made their way up the increasingly muddy track as fast as they were able, all far too impatient to wait for the back-up that was hopefully following on behind.

Nearing the end of the path Porthos realised with a jolt that the doors to the tunnel entrance were no longer locked, the padlock now hanging loose from one leaf. He signalled to the others to be quiet and they crept closer, hoping the noise of the nearby waterfall would mask their movement.

Reaching the door Porthos lifted the wooden panel bodily out of the mud, swinging it back on its hinge so anyone inside wouldn’t be alerted to their presence by it scraping along the ground. A curtain of plastic hung in front of them, and he pushed it gently aside.

Rather than the dank and chilly tunnel he was expecting, Porthos' first impression was of well-lit, humid warmth and thick vegetation. Two figures were bent over a seemingly endless row of raised beds, their backs to the entrance and oblivious to the fact they were no longer alone.

And then d’Artagnan’s phone beeped loudly with an incoming message.

The men swung round, realised they were being observed and promptly charged at them, yelling. Producing a vicious looking knife from his belt the younger of the two ran straight at Elodie, deciding she looked like the weakest link.

Elodie took one look at the knife and stepped smartly out of his way, only to stick her foot out as he dashed past. He went sprawling face first into the mud outside, the knife spinning out of his hand. Marcheaux kicked it swiftly out of reach into the bushes and grabbed him by the back of the shirt.

"Up you come, weasel."

The second man for reasons best known to himself had run directly at Porthos, only to bounce off him as violently if he’d run straight into a brick wall. He was still looking slightly puzzled as d’Artagnan marched him outside to join his friend.

Distantly they could hear the wail of sirens, although it would be a few minutes yet before the back-up made it here on foot through the woods.

Porthos recognised Stefan Straczynski from the CCTV footage, but to his surprise he also recognised the second man. About twenty years older than Stefan, he sported a battered fisherman’s cap, scruffy white beard and a lazy eye.

"Basil!" Porthos greeted him delightedly, as the man huffed and looked down at his feet.

"Friend of yours?" Marcheaux jibed with a certain satisfaction at getting to retaliate, but Porthos just laughed.

"Basil Connors. Fancies himself as something of a local drugs baron, except he’s never had the nous to avoid getting caught. Record as long as my arm, haven’t you Bas?"

Basil glowered, but didn’t bother denying it.

"Keep an eye on em’," Porthos instructed d’Artagnan, as four uniformed officers finally puffed up the slope. "I want another look inside."

Followed by Marcheaux and Elodie, Porthos walked back into the tunnel, looking around with interest and a certain amount of relief at what seemed to be a satisfactory conclusion.

As well as the neat rows of cannabis plants stretching as far as they could see into the mine, there was a makeshift trestle table made from crates and a couple of planks, loaded with bags of compost and trays of tiny seedlings.

"I guess that’s what you’d call the _potting_ bench," Marcheaux grinned, too pleased with his own joke to be bothered that nobody else laughed. Something caught his eye behind one of the trays. "Here. Look at this."

Porthos looked over his shoulder. "Binoculars?"

"Expensive ones." Marcheaux picked them up carefully and held out the strap for Porthos to see. There was an embossed leather label, that read _T. Carmichael_.

"Halle-fucking-leujah," said Porthos. "They were here."

"Our friends outside must have decided to hang on to them when they knocked off the owner."

"Praise be for the magpie instinct," Porthos muttered. "Or we’d have nothing tying them to the deaths."

"I don’t know about that sir," Elodie called from where she’d walked further down the tunnel. "Not if this is what I think it is."

They picked their way through the rows of plants to where she’d moved one of the lamps to illuminate the rock floor, and a wide dark stain.

"Blood?" Porthos hazarded.

"Must be where they were killed," Marcheaux said. "They must have discovered what was down here, and got knifed for their trouble. Pinky and Perky out there decided to use the bodies to scare off anyone else from coming anywhere close."

They walked back outside to find Stefan still looking defiant and Basil looking increasingly depressed. 

"You're under arrest for the murders of Trevor Carmichael and Alison Sonderby," Porthos declared.

"Never heard of them," Stefan protested, and Elodie held up the binoculars, now safely encased in an evidence bag. "I found those in the woods," he argued.

"You found this as well, I presume?" Marcheaux suggested, producing the knife from under the bush where he'd kicked it.

Porthos nodded. "I do believe we've found our murder weapon sergeant. What happened, eh?" he turned on Stefan, suddenly menacing. "They walk in on your little operation did they, needed silencing?"

"You've got nothing on me."

"There's a puddle of dried blood back there that says otherwise," Porthos snapped. Movement further down the hill caught his eye, and he groaned. "Oh bloody hell, what are they doing back?"

The same group of kids from the day before had reappeared and were watching the proceedings from the lower mine entrance, thoroughly entranced.

He waved them away, but they just waved back cheekily and Porthos sighed. "I'm going down there, they shouldn't be here it's not safe. Charge these men and take them back to the station. I want a full ops team in that tunnel as soon as we can get them to site." 

Considering his options Porthos decided the quickest route was directly downhill, and started making his way down the steep slope towards the children. The going was treacherous, thick and slippery leaf mould lying over sheer rock that repeatedly made his boots skid out from under him, and the five kids watched his progress with considerable hilarity. 

Back at the top, Marcheaux was also watching with open amusement. "If he falls off the cliff into the water, can I have his job?"

"How about you concentrate on the one you've already got?" snapped d'Artagnan.

"I'm not the one who nearly got us all knifed," Marcheaux pointed out. This reminded d'Artagnan of the message he'd received, and he took out his phone to see what it had been.

"It's the background report on Carmichael," he said. "Turns out his job at the council was in the ecology and conservation department. His current project? Bats."

"He must have been checking the tunnels," Elodie suggested. "Perfect habitat."

"Unlucky for him," said Marcheaux, without any apparent feeling. "Right, are we going to charge this couple of twats, or what? It's cold out here, and I feel a nice warm interview room calling."

"Charge us?" Stefan spat. "What with? You ain’t got no evidence."

"No evidence?" d’Artagnan echoed incredulously. "What do you call all that in there, eh? Just happened across it did you? Don’t tell me you were just birdwatching."

"I wanna call my lawyer," Stefan complained.

" _You’ve_ got a lawyer? Lucrative business, is it?"

"I get a phone call though don’t I?" Stefan complained, taking out his mobile.

"Yeah, down the station," d’Artagnan started, but Stefan was already dialling. "Here, what are you doing?" He broke off in confusion as Stefan watched the call go through, only to immediately cut the connection again with a smirk.

"Guess there’s no one home."

"What was all that about?" d’Artagnan demanded and Stefan beckoned him closer conspiratorially. Against his better judgement d’Artagnan leaned forward, and Stefan whispered in his ear.

_"Boom."_

D’Artagnan jerked back and stared at him, then a second later ducked as an explosion roared out behind them, echoing around the quarry. The doors to the tunnel blew off and cartwheeled down the hillside to splash into the water, and the entrance itself collapsed in a crash of falling stone, leaving it utterly blocked.

Stefan gave them a complacent grin. "Like I said. What evidence?" He drew back his arm and hurled his phone into the air. D’Artagnan flinched, for a second thinking Stefan had thrown it at him, only to watch it sail past and fall into the deepest part of the pool below.

D’Artagnan shoved him towards Marcheaux disgustedly. "Cuff him."

"Hello Stefan," Marcheaux beamed. "Remember me? You have the right to keep your big gob shut."

"Oi." D'Artagnan pulled him back. "Do it right. The Inspector won't want any cock-ups on this."

Marcheaux rolled his eyes, but grudgingly delivered the correct caution to both men.

"Here. What happened to the second charge?" Basil grumbled, as they were handed over to the uniforms to be lead away.

Stefan shrugged. "Signal problem, dodgy fuse? How should I know?"

D'Artagnan and Marcheaux exchanged a look, for once united in alarm.

"What do you mean, second - " D'Artagnan never got any further, as there was a distant crump and a second cloud of dust rose from the hillside. This was followed by a much louder crack and an ominous rumbling, and everyone looked up in alarm to see an entire section of the quarry wall break off and start to slide towards the water.

\--

Porthos had thrown himself to the ground when the first explosion occurred, and had narrowly missed being decapitated by the flying doors. Staggering back to his feet he'd stared in disbelief up the hill, satisfied himself there appeared to be no casualties and continued on his way, figuring that the safety of the children had to be his priority now more than ever.

Awestruck and scared, the children hadn't moved and Porthos had almost reached them when the second explosion shook the ground beneath his feet. The sickening noise that followed as a huge section of rock and earth tore itself away from the rest of the quarry made him freeze. 

He had a split second to decide what to do. If he ran back the way he'd come, scrambling sideways across the upper slope, he would probably have time to get out of the way, at least of the worst. But - but. The children, still rooted to the spot, were standing directly in the path of it.

Porthos was running before he'd even consciously made the decision.

"Get in! In! Get in!" Gesticulating wildly that they should duck into the protection of the tunnel opening behind them. With no possibility of out-running it, it was the only chance they had; if they could shelter in there the majority of the landslide just might fall right past and into the lake. 

Four of the children turned and ran inside, but the smallest girl, too bewildered and frightened by the noise and the shouting stayed where she was.

Earth and stones rattling ahead of the main body of rock were starting to cascade down around her as Porthos picked her up without breaking stride and hurtled into the shack at a flat run.

"Keep going! Further in, as far as you can," he yelled, seeing that the others had stopped just inside and knowing that the rotten wood walls would afford them no protection at all. 

Too scared now to argue, they ran ahead into the darkness, Porthos at their heels praying that there wasn't a vertical shaft anywhere in the vicinity. From what he remembered most of the mining had been done by following seams horizontally into the hill, but he knew at least some of the tunnels linked up.

In a grinding, roaring blast the shack was wiped from the face of the earth in a single second as tonnes of rock and earth thundered past. Escaping into the tunnel by the skin of his teeth Porthos missed the main force of the collapse, but was hurled to the ground by the pressure wave that followed.

The last of the daylight was cut off behind them as the falling debris covered the entrance, and as Porthos lost consciousness his last thought was that they had escaped being crushed to death only to be buried alive.

\--

Athos was making a desultory effort to start packing up his things when his attention was diverted by sirens screaming past his window. Three police cars zipped past the house and he wandered out into the road to see what was going on.

Further up the hill the vicar had also come out of the church to investigate, and Athos walked up to join him, nodding a greeting.

"Aramis. What's all the excitement?" 

"Seem to be headed for the quarry," Aramis was craning his neck to see over the churchyard wall. "Terrible business that. I knew the dead couple you know?"

"I didn't. I'm sorry."

"You go through life trying to be virtuous, and that's your reward," Aramis sighed.

"Not much of an argument for being virtuous, really."

Aramis conceded the point with a wry smile. "Not many people are these days. Do you know they actually asked my permission to move in together?"

"Good grief. I hope you gave it."

"Naturally. My congregations aren't that big I can afford to lose anyone by upsetting them," Aramis joked, then his face fell as he remembered that he had lost them, and how.

Athos patted awkwardly him on the shoulder. "Hopefully all the police action means they've made progress. Maybe they've made an arrest.

"Or found another body," Aramis said darkly. They looked at each other assessingly, both rather hoping the other would suggest going to take a closer look.

"Perhaps we should - " Aramis murmured.

"Absolutely. They might help of some kind," Athos agreed.

They started walking up the road and had almost reached the footpath into the woods when a tremendous roaring boom reverberated across the valley. 

Athos looked up in shock. "What the hell was that?" 

"Sounded like the whole damn quarry collapsed," Aramis said, but Athos wasn't listening, he was staring at the vehicles double parked in the lay-by up ahead. "What's wrong?"

"That's Porthos' car." Athos started running up the path, abruptly seized by the conviction that whatever had caused the dreadful noise it could have been nothing good, and that wherever trouble was happening, Porthos was bound to be in the thick of it.

\--

"Get them out of here." D’Artagnan gestured disgustedly at Stefan and Basil, both of whom had lost their air of insolence. Neither was ever going to mourn the loss of a policeman, but apparently causing the deaths of five innocent children had shocked even them into silence.

Marcheaux opened his mouth to object on principle to being given orders by someone who was the same rank as him, then closed it again hurriedly. Taking charge of the prisoners meant A, that he’d get first crack at interrogating them and consequently the credit for any convictions, B, he could piss off back to the warm rather than standing around out here all night, and C, he wouldn’t have to faff about arranging for the bodies to be dug out.

Buttonholing the most attractive uniformed policewoman to assist, he marched the prisoners down to the car, staring curiously at the frantic looking man who ran past closely followed by a vicar, but not bothering to stop them figuring they were d’Artagnan’s problem not his.

\-- 

The sight that met Athos’ eyes as he reached the edge of the quarry was one of devastation. The scenery had changed dramatically from what he remembered; part of the quarry wall had collapsed into the water below and taking trees and bushes with it. The sound of falling water seemed louder than he remembered, or maybe it was just the thundering in his head.

D’Artagnan caught sight of them and winced, walking over with a heavy heart. This was one conversation he’d hoped to avoid having yet.

"What happened?" Athos asked, bewildered by the scene, and by the number of officers who seemed to be doing nothing more than milling about helplessly.

"We found our killers. They were using one of the old mine workings as a cannabis farm. As far as we can tell, the tunnel was rigged with explosives. I'm guessing they only meant to close off the entrance, but it bought the whole cliff-face down."

"Where's Porthos?" Looking around and not seeing him.

D’Artagnan swallowed. "Athos - I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do."

"What are you talking about?" Athos went pale, staring down at the long dark scar of broken rock and earth. "Are you saying - ?"

"He was trying to save some children. I'm sorry Athos, they were right in the path of it."

"No." It was barely a breath, Athos wondering distantly if he was about to faint. Everything felt very far away all of a sudden.

A pressure on his arm proved to be Aramis' steadying hand, and Athos realised he'd been swaying. The contact helped pull him back, and he stared at d'Artagnan, stricken.

"There is a chance - " d'Artagnan broke off, wincing. "I don't want to give you false hope."

"What? Tell me," Athos demanded. "There's a chance?"

"Well - there was another entrance to the mine workings down there. It's just possible he managed to get inside."

"So he might still be alive?"

D'Artagnan nodded cautiously.

"Then why aren't you doing something?" Athos asked wildly, wondering why the hell every person in sight wasn’t frantically digging, with their bare hands if necessary.

"Look, there's proper equipment on the way," d'Artagnan promised. "But it'll take time to organise, and to get it up here. And – even then it may be too late."

"Why? What aren't you telling me?"

"The explosion fractured the bed of the upper lake. All the water's draining into the lower pool and it has nowhere to go from there. We have no way of stopping it. By the time we can get any earth moving plant up here - the lower levels of the mine will be flooded."

"Then we have to do something!" Athos made to move past him towards the footpath that now ended in a ragged tangle of roots and a sheer drop. D’Artagnan grabbed his arm.

"We're not talking about a couple of buckets of loose soil here. There's tonnes of rock blocking that entrance, and it's still unstable. Porthos wouldn't want you to endanger your own life on a pointless exercise."

"You can't just abandon him - " Athos tried again to head down the path and this time it took the combined strength of d’Artagnan and Aramis to stop him.

"Athos! Nobody is abandoning anyone. But if you take one more step closer to that rockfall, I'll arrest you for your own protection. Please. Leave it to the experts. And trust me, we are doing everything in our power to save them." D'Artagnan’s phone rang and he moved off, leaving them alone. 

"You don't believe in ghosts, do you?" Athos asked distantly, staring down into the water far below.

Aramis gave him a curious look. "No. No, I don't."

"How about miracles?"

"Oh yes, miracles rather go with the territory."

"I've never been much of a believer myself. I don't imagine my stock's very high Upstairs. But I'd take it as a kindness if you'd put in a word." Athos sounded choked, his words barely audible, but he was at least holding it together and Aramis nodded gravely.

"Consider it done."

A fresh commotion behind them drew their attention, as someone started screaming. Looking back down the path they saw d'Artagnan and two uniformed officers trying to prevent a new party of people from running into the quarry. Athos realised one of the screaming women was Trixie Evans, and finally the implication behind the rest of d'Artagnan's words hit home. 

"Oh my God," he breathed. "There are children down there as well."

He knew too well the pain of losing someone close to you, to the point that he wasn't at all sure he could go through it again and keep his sanity. But how much worse would it be to lose a child?

"You should go home," Aramis suggested gently. "There’s nothing you can do here."

Athos shook his head. He wouldn't - couldn't - leave until he knew for certain either way. 

Aramis cleared his throat. "Well. I'd better - " Gesturing vaguely towards the distraught parents. Athos nodded, watching him walk away.

Alone. Again. 

\--

When Porthos opened his eyes his first thought was that either he was dead, or he’d gone blind. The darkness was complete, pitch blackness pressing in on his eyes like a physical weight, and he fought down the urge to panic.

Gradually sensations returned. He was wet, he was muddy, and he was sore, and somewhere, somebody was crying. What he thought was a rock jabbing into his side proved to be a finger, as someone poked him repeatedly.

"Wake up. Wake _up_!"

"Yeah. Yeah, I’m here." Porthos’ throat was dry and it came out as a croak. He coughed and sat up gingerly, unsure of how much headroom there was.

There was scufflings all around him in the dark, and he fumbled for his phone, praying it hadn’t got broken in the fall. He was thankful when the screen lit up obligingly, although as it told him he had 10% battery and no signal, it wasn’t as cheering as it might have been. 

Porthos switched it on to torch mode and flashed it round, assessing the damage. To his hearty relief all five children were accounted for, smeared with dirt and sporting various cuts and bruises, but no major injuries.

"Right. Everybody okay? Good. Well then. That was exciting wasn’t it?" Five small faces looked up at him in various stages of disbelief, but the confidence in his voice helped calm them slightly, and the ones openly sobbing subsided to a muted sniffling.

Porthos wondered exactly how many tonnes of rock were currently blocking them in, and how long it would take to dig them out. A cursory examination of the wall of debris behind them suggested there was no way they could burrow out and that it would probably be dangerous to even attempt it. 

He briefly considered exploring further into the mine to see if they could find another way out, but he wasn’t sure how long his battery would last, and getting lost in the dark down here would be fatal. The responsible thing to do would be to sit tight and wait for help.

"Are we going to suffocate?" asked one little boy, and the two smallest children immediately started crying again. Porthos could have throttled him.

"No, of course we’re not. There’s plenty of air. We just have to wait for them to rescue us, that’s all. They know where we are. Help’ll be on its way." Honesty compelled him to add, "Might be a while, though. We’ll have to be patient." 

Without knowing exactly how much debris was over the entrance Porthos couldn’t guess how long it would take to remove it, but he knew perfectly well that to track down some earthmoving equipment, arrange for it to be brought up here and then get it into position would take hours just on its own. He had a horrible feeling they might even be looking at a couple of days down here, but there was no way he was going to tell the children that at this point. 

Porthos hoped everyone on the surface had been at a safe distance from the collapse, and spared a sympathetic thought for d’Artagnan who was presumably currently doing his nut over how to sort this mess out. He hoped Marcheaux was being more of a help than a hindrance.

"Well, as we’ll be here for a while, we’d better get to know each other," Porthos said, trying to keep his voice friendly and positive. "I’m Porthos."

Privately, he was racking up more and more things to worry about. He was relatively certain they weren’t going to suffocate, there was enough moisture on the walls that they wouldn’t die of thirst, and they would certainly be rescued before starvation became an issue, but being hungry and thirsty and sore and tired and scared would take its toll on the children before long. They were all wearing sturdy clothes and coats, but it was cold down here, and he was worried about the youngest ones particularly.

Worst of all, it was almost inevitable that their confinement down here would end up in utter darkness. Part of him wanted to ration the battery but he knew it was too soon after the shock to expect them to cope with the dark again.

"Has anyone else got a phone with a torch?" he asked, hoping they’d be able to at least postpone the moment a little.

Three of them duly produced mobiles, and there was a flutter of excitement until it was realised nobody else had a signal either. One of the phones had been smashed in the scramble into the tunnel, but two were still working and had a decent battery life left. 

Gently, Porthos convinced them to turn the phones off again, explaining as best he could without panicking them that they should use them up one at a time.

It was this more than anything that brought home how long they were likely to be down here, and the novelty of the experience was fast wearing off.

Porthos smiled at the littlest girl. "What’s your name?" She was staring at him intently, cheeks puffed out and mouth pursed as if she was about to blow him a raspberry, but with a serious expression that he feared could easily become tears again if he didn’t distract her.

"Her name’s Amina," offered one of the boys when she refused to speak. "She’s my sister. She’s six." He sighed. "And mum’s going to kill me for bringing her down here."

"Well I’m sure she’ll just be relieved to get you both back," said Porthos comfortingly. "What’s your name?"

"Samir Evans. That’s Billy and that’s Mags, we’re all seven. That’s Dan, he’s eight."

"Pleased to meet you all," Porthos smiled round at them.

"Are we in trouble?" asked Mags, looking guilty. "You told us not to come back," she added, when Porthos looked confused.

"Oh. Well. No helping it now. Let’s just get out of here, eh, and we’ll say no more about it."

There was a palpable lessening of tension, and Porthos reflected it was a sad state of affairs when even kids this young were scared of the police. 

Suddenly Amina scuttled across from where she’d been crouching and threw herself down at Porthos’ side, burrowing in beside him and hiding her face in his jacket. Bemused, Porthos carefully put a protective arm around her, hugging her close when she didn’t object.

"She likes you," said Samir, sounding surprised. "She normally won’t go to anyone."

"Then I’m honoured." 

Amina’s demonstration of trust seemed to have a thawing effect on the rest of them and for some time conversation flowed almost cheerfully, although the dark and oppressive surroundings meant everyone kept their voices instinctively low. 

After a while Porthos became conscious of Amina shifting restlessly beside him and he wondered if she needed the loo. That raised a whole new awkward issue of how they were going to deal with such needs if they were down here for as long as he suspected they would be.

"You okay?" he asked in an undertone.

She looked up at him indignantly. "My feet are wet."

"Wet?" Porthos shone the light down and past where she was sitting, and what he saw had him on his feet in a moment. Creeping silently up the passage was a pool of black water. 

Porthos realised it must have been forming for some time, but in the shadows they hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, it just seemed to be seeping through the rocks, but it was inching closer even as he watched.

Crowded together on the lip of the pool they all shuffled backwards as it slowly but surely deepened.

"Oh f-ff-fudge," Porthos said, just managing not to swear.

Billy tugged at his sleeve thoughtfully. "Mister? You know what I reckon?"

Porthos managed an encouraging smile. "What do you reckon Billy?"

"I reckon it's probably okay to say fuck."

\--


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos stifled a laugh. “You could be be right,” he murmured. 

“Why’s it doing that?” asked Mags nervously. “We were well above the lake.”

Porthos stared helplessly at the rising water and realised he hadn’t a clue. “Maybe the tide came in. Come on, we’d better move back.”

They picked their way deeper into the tunnel. The way became narrower and the roof lower, but other than Porthos having to bend almost double, for a short distance the route was clear and aside from the occasional banged head they made good progress. Judging by the occasional bits of litter picked out in the torchlight, Porthos guessed people had been using the tunnel for years. He’d probably even been inside it himself once, although he had no clear memory of it.

His one concern was that so far it had stayed fairly level. He’d been hoping it would climb slightly to provide a degree of safety from the water which was still seeping inexorably into the mine. 

With one light between six of them the going was slow, but in another couple of minutes they had a shock that brought the whole party to a halt. Built across the whole of the passage was a wooden shutter, fixed into the walls and barring any further progress.

“Now what do we do?” asked Dan plaintively. “Do we go back?”

Porthos closed his eyes for a second. This was turning into more of a nightmare every minute. He shone the torch back the way they’d come, and got a second shock as the reflection gleamed back at him from inky water. He’d had no idea it was so close behind them.

“I don’t think we can,” he said levelly. “I think we need to go on.” 

“How?” asked Billy, not unreasonably in the circumstances, but Porthos still had to suppress the urge to growl at him. 

“I want to go home,” Amina wailed suddenly, and the other children all instinctively winced, familiar with that particular pitch and anticipating tears.

Porthos crouched down in front of her. “I need you to do something for me. It’s very important. Can you help me?”

Amina stared at him, then gave a hesitant nod.

“Good.” He handed her the phone, noticing as he did so that the battery was down to 4%. “I need you to hold it steady and shine it over there, can you do that?” 

Another nod, and he smiled at her. “That’s it. Perfect.”

With the light shakily illuminating the barricade, Porthos went to work on it. Finding a space between the boards he wedged his fingers into the gap and heaved. It splintered but held, and he tried again, straining with all his might at the weakest point until finally a piece broke away with a crack.

Encouraged, Porthos attacked the rest of it, wrenching bits off with a strength borne of desperation. Fortunately the barrier had been in place a long time; the wood was partially rotten in places, and several of the metal fixings had rusted almost through. If it had been a more recent installation it probably would have been made from metal bars or concrete blocks, and Porthos didn’t want to think about what would have happened then. As it was, by the time he’d broken a hole big enough for them to pass through, they were sloshing ankle deep in freezing cold water. 

“Right, everybody through,” Porthos ordered, but just at that moment the light unexpectedly went out, plunging them all into darkness.

“What did you do?” Samir asked his sister accusingly.

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“Shh, it’s alright, the battery died, that’s all,” Porthos said. “Dan, yours still working?”

There was a muffled scuffling and swearing somewhere to his left, then the dim glow of a screen appeared in the dark and another light snapped on. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Okay. Here we go. Dan, can I take that? I think I’d better go first. Amina behind me, then Mags, then you two, then Dan can you bring up the rear?”

Dan looked distinctly nervous at this dubious honour of being the eldest, and Billy nudged him.

“I’ll do it if you’re too chicken.”

“Shut up freak. I’m not scared.” 

“That’s settled then,” Porthos interrupted hastily. “Come on. Mind the edges, they’re sharp.”

They squeezed through the gap into the tunnel beyond. It felt dank and slimy and smelt bad.

“I don’t like it,” Amina said, crowding close to Porthos. 

“I’ve been in nicer places,” Porthos agreed. “Although it does have one plus. Look, it’s starting to slope up hill. I’ve had enough paddling for one day.”

They set off again, picking their way in single file through the oppressive darkness. Despite having the torch Porthos repeatedly bashed his head on jutting bits of rock and decided that the miners who’d hewn out the seam in the first place must have been a lot smaller than him. The children didn’t have quite so much trouble, but the going was slippery and claustrophobic, and everyone was very quiet. 

In places Porthos had to turn sideways to squeeze through narrow necks of rock, and once everyone had to drop to hands and knees and crawl. The horror of this was almost enough to cause a mutiny, but cautious investigation by Dan revealed that the water was still rising behind them and the fear of drowning won out.

Thankfully the lowest section was relatively brief, and beyond it they all stopped for a rest and to stretch in relief.

“Aren’t we high enough yet?” Billy complained. “We’ve been going for _hours._ ”

“Just over forty five minutes,” Porthos informed him apologetically. This was met with widespread indignant disbelief, and he almost laughed. “I know. It _feels_ like hours. But we’ve not actually come all that far. And probably less than a metre in height.” 

Wherever the water was coming from, it must be seeping into the mine through faults and crevices rather than pouring in through a catastrophic breach Porthos decided, otherwise they’d probably all have been drowned in seconds. He kept this cold comfort to himself, deciding it wouldn’t necessarily help morale to point out things could be worse.

Barely had the thought passed through his head, when things promptly _got_ worse. 

He stopped abruptly, causing a series of minor collisions back down the line as everyone bumped into each other.

“What’s wrong?” someone called. There was audible strain in everyone’s voices by now, but so far nobody had panicked and Porthos was immensely proud of all of them.

“The tunnel forks.” Porthos shone the light down one, then the other. They both looked equally unappealing. More importantly, he had no way of telling which, if either, might lead them to higher ground. He realised the odds were that eventually they were going to come to a dead end, but if they chose wrong here – well the water level was still rising. They would only get one shot at picking a tunnel, because if it came to an end, or was blocked, or started leading back downhill – this junction would almost certainly be under water by the time they got back to it.

“How do we choose? Toss a coin?” suggested Billy. 

Porthos was inclined to think this was a good suggestion. They had to decide quickly, and this way nobody could be blamed if the decision proved to be a bad one. He felt in his pockets and came up empty, belatedly remembering he’d given d’Artagnan all his change that morning when he’d dispatched him to the vending machine for chocolate in lieu of breakfast.

“Anyone got one?”

Examination of five further sets of pockets revealed several sweet wrappers, three keys, numerous crumpled tissues and in Billy’s case a dried dead frog, but no coins.

By now there were mutterings from the back of the line about encroaching water again, and Porthos inched forward to examine their options once more.

Both passages were narrower than their current one, both looked reasonably clear of fallen rock and neither looked more likely than the other to start climbing. He sighed. The decision was going to have to be his. 

Taking a deep breath, preparing to tell them he’d arbitrarily picked the right-hand fork, Porthos hesitated. He’d caught a whiff of something other than the background smell of mouldy damp and rotting bat droppings they’d all become accustomed to. He sniffed again cautiously, until he got a second hit. It smelt almost like – woodsmoke. 

For a moment the sensory memory almost overwhelmed him. It reminded him of being in Athos’ cottage, safe and warm and happy. He wondered where Athos was, if he’d heard what had happened. As far as Porthos knew he might even have gone back to London already. But the smell brought such vivid associations with it that he changed his mind on the spot and lead the party into the left-hand tunnel instead.

Trying to rationalise his decision, Porthos told himself that perhaps there was an opening close by, that the smell of smoke had blown in from outside, but as they moved deeper into the mine the smell disappeared again, and he was left wondering if he’d imagined it.

On the plus side, the passage didn’t dip lower or come to a dead end, and remained relatively free from obstructions. It also felt like they were climbing slightly, and by the time they reached yet another junction Porthos felt they’d gained enough height to allow themselves a rest.

Everyone sat down thankfully. The second phone battery was almost exhausted; being used as a torch having drained it quickly. They switched to the third and last phone, and Porthos privately estimated that they had about half an hour of light left.

“We’ve got a choice,” he told them. “We can wait here – I reckon the water won’t come up this far, and it’s got to go down again eventually. We can wait for the level to drop, and find our way out again.” The torch wouldn’t last that long, but it was on balance the most sensible plan.

“Or,” he continued, “we could keep going. But the phone won’t last much longer, and if the tunnel continues to branch we risk getting lost in the dark.” 

In the pale torchlight they all looked slightly betrayed, and Porthos realised there’d been an unspoken assumption that he was leading them out and to safety. 

There was silence for a while, the only sound the distant drip of water. Then Billy shivered, and hugged his knees. “I vote we keep going. It’s warmer. And we might find a way out.”

“And me,” said Mags. “I don’t want to have to go back through all that again. Especially the bit where we crawled.”

Eventually it was unanimous, and Porthos nodded slowly. Keeping busy was better for all of them in the short term, he just wondered sickly what would happen when the last battery gave out. As the only adult he could overrule them – but the idea of sitting still was just as repellent to him.

“Right. Come on then.” He got stiffly to his feet. “Which one do we reckon?” Again they had the option of two tunnels. Logic suggested they take the left fork each time the path divided, to make it easier to keep their bearings in the event of having to retrace their steps. But as he peered into each opening in turn he caught the thread of woodsmoke again, this time from the right-hand passage.

“This way.” He didn’t know why he was so certain it was the right choice, but as they pressed on without meeting any further obstacles his spirits rose. The passage was twisting about like a snake, presumably as the old miners had followed the seam, but it was also undeniably rising. Porthos felt they had to be safe from the water by now, which meant it was simply a matter of time until they were found. Assuming they hadn’t been given up for dead, anyway. For the first time he wondered how much of their narrow escape had been visible from the top of the quarry, or whether everyone believed they’d all been killed by the rockfall. In which case it was possible no one would be looking for them at all.

“Fuck.” He spoke without thinking, and heard a muted sniggering behind him which was almost certainly Billy. “Sorry.” He apologised automatically, despite having a sneaking suspicion most of them probably knew worse words than he did.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mags.

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Don’t lie to us. We’re not _babies_.” This was Billy again, and Porthos rolled his eyes, glad that nobody could see him.

“Battery’s nearly gone,” he told them instead. This was true in any case, and it was only fair they were braced for it. “If – when it goes – I want everyone to hold hands. It’ll make it harder to walk, but I don’t want to lose anyone down here, you understand me?” 

A second later a small hand slipped silently into his, and he looked down in surprise. Amina looked back at him warily, as if waiting to be mocked. He squeezed her hand comfortingly and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

They moved on again, instinctively trying to hurry before the light gave out, but it was hard going, and dangerous. Porthos could feel blood trickling down the side of his face from the last time he’d collided with the treacherously uneven rock ceiling but he couldn’t spare a hand to wipe it away, holding as he was the phone in one and Amina’s hand in the other.

A few minutes later they came to yet another fork and Porthos’ heart sank. He had the sudden frightening thought that they might be going in circles, but as he tried to examine the floor for any signs they’d already passed this way, the phone gave a sad little chirp and died completely.

He shook it futilely, then slipped it into his pocket. “All right. Everybody link up.” Contrary to his instruction, he felt Amina’s hand pull out of his grasp, and made a blind grab for her. “Hey. Where’d you go?”

“Look!” 

As they were currently standing in pitch darkness this was more than a little confusing, until he felt her hand bunch impatiently in the material of his trousers and pull. “Over there!”

Porthos turned round, keeping his balance with difficulty, and finally made out what Amina’s sharp eyes had spotted first. Far down in one of the new tunnels was a glimmer of light.

He sensed a rustle of movement around him, and managed to grab at least two children in the dark. “Hey. Hey! Let me go first, okay? We can’t see what’s between us and that light, and I don’t want someone running out of the end only to find we’re halfway up a cliff. Now. Link hands, and let’s do this safely.”

They edged forwards, impatient and excited, and the faint glow gradually became brighter. To Porthos’ weak relief it looked like being a fair-sized hole. He’d been afraid it might have proved to be a tiny crack that none of them would be able to get through, but it was about half a metre round. An air duct or drainage channel he decided, it could never have been a proper entrance. Whatever it was, he silently showered heartfelt thanks on the long ago mining engineer who’d felt the need for it.

The small opening was overgrown with ivy and brambles and Porthos guessed it was probably quite invisible from the outside. He tore away the worst of the vegetation and cautiously stuck his head out into blessed fresh air, feeling a bit like a badger emerging from hibernation. 

He saw they were high in the wooded fringe of the quarry, much further up than he’d estimated, and thankfully the slope beneath them wasn’t too steep to negotiate. 

Below them he could see lights and people and crowd barriers, and somewhere in the distance he could hear a helicopter. _Oops_ , he thought. _Hope that’s not for me. Never hear the end of it._

Out loud he yelled down to the crowd below. “Hey! Oi, up here!” He wriggled further out of the hole, waving vigorously as heads started to turn, people peering through the gathering dusk to try and make out where the voice was coming from.

Porthos turned to start helping the children out through the hole behind him, and had got three of them out when he was half-blinded by a spotlight that came to rest on their position from below.

There was a lot more shouting now, but he couldn’t make out any words. It didn’t really matter. They’d made it to safety, and shortly all of this would become somebody else’s problem.

Tiredly Porthos made his way down the slope, carrying Amina. Despite being told not to, Billy plunged down ahead of them at speed and ended up sliding down the last section, fetching up at the feet of his alarmed parents whilst giggling hysterically. They gathered him up into their arms, and it was hard to tell who was laughing and who was crying. 

The rest of them managed to reach the bottom still upright, and Porthos handed Amina over to a sobbing Trixie, giving Samir a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they were both bundled away with barely a word of thanks. He understood. Everyone was beyond words, by this point. 

Bruised, battered, bleeding and filthy, Porthos watched the other children being reunited with their frantic parents and was glad for them, but it was tinged with regret that there was no one waiting to hold him just as tightly. It wasn’t until he was walking exhaustedly over to where d’Artagnan was waiting with the paramedics that he saw the figure standing silently behind the police cordon, a little apart from the rest of the gawking crowds.

Athos caught his eye and inclined his head slightly, and somehow in that most undemonstrative of gestures was a wealth of feeling. Porthos just stood and stared, and there must have been enough in his own expression, because Athos lifted the tape and started walking towards him. 

A uniform made to stop him, but Porthos finally found his voice. "Let him through."

Close up, Porthos could see there was still a wariness to Athos’ expression, as if unsure of his reception, and the realisation that Athos had cared enough to come without even knowing if he was welcome made ridiculous tears prickle at the back of his eyes. 

He opened his arms and Athos walked into them, and neither of them said a word, just held each other tightly, in front of everyone. 

Athos buried his face in Porthos' neck, closing his eyes. "I thought you were dead."

"Take more than being buried alive to get rid of me." For a second Porthos could smell woodsmoke again, and it smelled of home, and safety. Of Athos.

Athos felt cold in his arms, and Porthos wondered how long he'd been standing out here without a coat on. He was either trembling or shivering, and Porthos wasn't sure which.

"Are _you_ alright?" he asked, thinking that Athos looked worse than he did.

"Yeah," Athos managed shakily. "I've just never felt so helpless," he admitted, and Porthos hugged him tighter. 

Eventually Porthos became aware of d'Artagnan hovering at the periphery of his vision, clearly unwilling to interrupt their moment but also needing to speak to him.

He pulled back reluctantly, steadying Athos with firm hands. "Look, I'm probably going to be a while here yet. Why don't you go home? I could come round, maybe? When I'm done?" Athos nodded, and Porthos breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Might be late," he felt compelled to admit, but Athos just nodded again.

"I'll still be up," he promised.

Porthos watched him walk unsteadily away, and for the first time all week felt a spark of hope for the future.

"He's been here the whole time," d'Artagnan said quietly. "Arrived just after the explosion. Wouldn't leave until he knew if you were alright."

Porthos nodded slowly. "Makes it all worth nearly getting flattened, really."

\--

In the end it wasn't that late when Porthos walked up Athos' front path, but he felt tired to his bones and hoped he wasn't walking into another argument. But the lamplit windows looked welcoming, and when Athos opened the door with a hesitant smile on his face Porthos could have cried with relief.

In the hallway they embraced again, and before anyone could say anything to fuck things up, Porthos kissed him, passionately.

Athos kissed back without complaint, and when he finally pulled away there was a slight blush on his cheeks. "Well." He cleared his throat. 

Porthos gave a sheepish laugh. "You didn't seem interested in my apologies, so I figured actions might speak louder than words."

"That was practically shouting."

Porthos pulled him closer again. "Say you forgive me?" he murmured. "For being an arse?"

"If you'd asked me this morning, I think the answer might still have been no," Athos said slowly. "But maybe there are more important things in life than wounded pride." 

They kissed again, this time warmly and slowly, finally relaxing against each other with a shared sigh.

"I thought I'd lost you,” Athos breathed, as if he could only now accept it now that the danger had passed.

"It was close," Porthos admitted. 

Athos pulled back a little and examined him more critically. "Not that I want to sound at all ungrateful for your miraculous resurrection, but you don't half stink."

Porthos sniffed himself, and wrinkled his nose. "I think it's bats," he said glumly, and Athos bit down on a laugh.

"Would you like a shower?" he offered.

"I'd kill for one to be honest."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Athos smiled. "Help yourself." Porthos' stomach growled loudly, and his smile widened in sympathy. "You hungry?"

"Starving. I don't think I've had a proper meal in about three days."

"Me neither," Athos admitted, and Porthos pulled him back into a hug on general principles. 

\--

An hour later, clean, well fed and feeling much happier, Porthos settled on the sofa and Athos handed him a large whisky.

"You realise if I drink this I won't be able to drive anywhere?" Porthos murmured.

"Where would you be driving to?" Athos asked neutrally, sitting next to him and adding softly, "You're already home."

Porthos put the glass down again and pulled Athos into his arms instead. 

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," Athos replied quietly, and Porthos felt a flare of something that was as much surprise as hope.

"You do?"

"If I wasn't in love with you, it wouldn't have hurt as much," Athos admitted with a pained smile.

"Would you really have let me walk away?"

"Oh, stubborn and self-destructive are my middle names," Athos said a little sadly. "I think there's a part of me that doesn't believe I deserve to be happy."

"That's not true. Athos that's not true."

"It's barely over a year. Since I lost her. Sometimes I think – what the hell am I doing?"

"You don't need to feel guilty. You don't. Look – we can take things slowly, yeah? Like we have been. If you need time - ?" Porthos tailed off, but Athos shook his head.

"I want to be with you," he said firmly, much to Porthos' relief. "I really do."

Porthos smiled. "Then I think you'd better take me to bed."

\--

Afterwards, lying close in the semi-dark, Porthos kissed him softly. "I do love you," he murmured. "It's important to me. That you know I mean it."

"I love you too," Athos whispered back. "And of course I believe you, you soppy bugger."

"I'm sorry. For hurting you before."

Athos shrugged slightly. "The world hurts you. That's just what it does."

"Oh Athos." Porthos hugged him tighter, contrite and guilty that he'd been partly responsible for reinforcing such an outlook.

Athos gave an awkward laugh, and shook himself. "Shit happens. It's hardly news." He reached up and cupped Porthos' face tenderly. "Some things make up for the rest though." 

"I give you my word I'll never be that stupid again."

Athos kissed him. "Don't make rash promises. Chances are we'll both fuck up occasionally." He paused. "The only promise we need to make is that when we do - we'll always forgive each other?"

"I promise." 

"Me too." Athos sighed. "And I owe you an apology, too."

"You do? What for?" Porthos asked, surprised.

"I've been thinking. About what you said, before. About me not understanding you. You were right, and I didn't want to consider that I might be wrong. But I suppose I never have really thought about how it might be different, to be you. Never bothered to try and understand. But I'd like to. If you'll let me? I'm ready to listen."

"That's all I ask." Porthos hugged him close, and for a while they lay quietly. 

"It's funny," Porthos mused after a time. "When I was underground – the tunnel kept branching, and I had to choose which way to go. There wasn't much time, and everywhere looked the same, but – there was this smell. It made me think of you." 

"Batshit?" Athos asked, deadpan, and Porthos snickered.

"Smoke."

"I don't smoke though?" Athos said, confused.

"Not cigarettes. Woodsmoke. I've smelt it here sometimes. It reminded me of – of being warm, and safe." Athos was staring at him, and he laughed self-consciously. "I don't know, maybe I imagined it. But somehow it felt like it lead us out."

"And thank God for that," Athos said feelingly, proceeding to demonstrate exactly how grateful he was all over again. 

"You'll stay, now then?" Porthos asked, when they'd finally stopped kissing again. "Here I mean?" Athos nodded.

"Yes. I'll get them to take the board down in the morning."

\--

Despite his ordeal Porthos insisted on going into work the following day, although with a promise to come back that evening. 

In the afternoon Athos ventured out on an errand of his own as far as the village shop, and returned with a pouch of tobacco. He placed it in a ceramic jar on the mantelpiece, feeling that back in the days when there'd been a real fire here, Wilfred would have stood in just that spot, knocking his pipe out into the grate.

"I don't know if you really lead Porthos out of that mine," he said quietly to the empty room. I don't even know if you really exist. But if you do, and you did - then this is for you. I don't know how else to say thank you."

\--

Just after dark Porthos let himself in the front door, looking slightly self-conscious. Athos had given him a key, and it was the first time he'd used it. He would keep his flat on, for now, but they'd see how things went.

Hearing the door, Athos came out of the sitting room to greet him. "How did it go? You must be quite the hero at work."

Porthos snorted. "Mostly they just took the piss, although to be fair that's pretty much how coppers express affection. Some bastard had changed the name on my locker to Julie Andrews."

"Not d'Artagnan I hope?" Athos laughed.

"I've got my suspicions it was Marcheaux. I reckon he was quite annoyed I turned up alive, I think he had designs on my job."

"Can't you get rid of him again?" Athos suggested, and Porthos grinned.

"Oh I dunno. He has his uses. Sometimes having a complete bastard on the team can come in handy."

"If you say so. How's the rest of it going? Have you got enough to charge them with, if they blew up all the evidence?"

"We've got the murder weapon, so if we can get that to stick I don't really care about the drugs charge. Although we might have had a breakthrough there and all. Elodie had an idea, went down the County Archive. She found a plan of the old mine workings. We reckon they might link up, the back of the tunnel that got closed off by the explosion, and the hole we came out of."

"They're not sending you back down there are they?" Athos teased.

"No fear. A properly equipped team this time. It doesn't really matter if they don't find anything. Stefan's staying close-lipped, but Basil's singing like a canary. Apparently it was what we thought, that having been discovered, they figured dressing the bodies up like that would scare off anyone else from exploring the area too closely."

There was an archive box open on the coffee table, full of notebooks and bundles of documents tied up in pink legal ribbon and Porthos eyed it curiously.

"What's all this?" he asked. "Back at work already?"

"No. It's my file on Bonnaire," Athos told him quietly. "All my notes. I had Constance courier them over. There's probably enough dirt in there that we kept out of court to convict him if it's presented as fresh evidence. We got off on a technicality before, he was never found innocent. You could file a new case. If you wanted."

Porthos stared at him in shock. "I don't know what to say." He looked down at the innocuous looking files, feeling stunned. "Although the bastard's probably gone to ground by now anyway. We'd never have a hope of finding him."

Athos shook his head. "He's used the firm for a number of things. Not me specifically, but – yeah. He was understandably pleased with the outcome, so he kept using us. His contact details are in there. I have no reason to believe they're not current."

"Athos – if it ever got out that you'd given me this – you'd be disbarred."

"I know." Athos nodded heavily. "I figure – to hell with it. My career was pretty much over anyway. You're more important to me now."

Porthos took Athos into his arms, holding him wordlessly tight.

"You don't have to do this you know," Porthos said eventually. "I would never have asked it of you. I thought you were going back to work, anyway?"

"I was." Athos looked away. "I don't know. It was never a good idea. And after this – I don't know that I have the stomach for defending bastards like that any more. While I was angry it seemed reasonable, but now? Not so much. I want you to have the file. Call it a matter of conscience. What you do with it's up to you."

"You know, there's a lot of people out there who need a decent defence lawyer," Porthos pointed out. "Innocent people. Ones who can't afford the top-flight flash gits in their expensive suits, and have to worry about getting sent down because of it."

Athos gave him a sideways look. "Are you trying to convert me to the cause?"

"Just putting it out there." Porthos grinned, and kissed him. "Doesn't pay well, mind."

"Money's not an issue," Athos admitted, looking a little embarrassed. "I made enough doing what I did that if I live modestly now I don't really have to worry about working. Not for a good while, anyway."

"Like I said. Flash git." 

Athos elbowed him in the ribs and Porthos snickered. "You had a flat in the City didn't you? Must have got a fair whack for that and all."

"I still have," Athos admitted. "I've been renting it out." He looked down, momentarily hit by a wave of nausea at what he'd nearly lost here. "I was going back to it."

Porthos gathered him back into his arms and hugged him. "But now you're staying right? You promised." He kissed Athos on top of his head. "No evicting tenants, okay?"

Athos managed a laugh, and nodded. "I'm staying. If you really want me to?"

"Course I bloody want you to." Porthos winked at him. "You've seen my flat. I missed your cosy kitchen." He kissed Athos on the forehead. "And your posh leather chairs." He kissed him on the nose. "And I missed your bed, particularly." 

His next kiss found its way to Athos' lips, and that was the last thing either of them said for some considerable time.

\--


End file.
